Dearest Arthur

(Trigger warning: This story contains physical violence and mental health issues. make sure you know what you're reading beforehand. Happy reading!)

Arthur knew everything about me. He prided himself on remembering my coffee order when I was too tired to get out of bed. He knew all the best jokes to make me laugh, and despite my constant need for affection, he never seemed to mind an extra kiss. Yet most of all, Arthur used to know exactly the amount of pressure it took to hold me in his arms. When I close my eyes, I can still hear him whispering to me in the stillness of our wedding night as he held me during our private dance. 

“Are you happy?” he would murmur,

My head lay against his chest, the aroma of his woodsy cologne enveloping me in a warmth only his body could bring. 

I used to nod as he held me tighter. The quiet swish of my tulle dress filled the otherwise soundless night. I could stay there forever. In that bubble of perfection. 

Then, with a kiss on my forehead. His whisper so soft I almost couldn't hear it, 

“If you're happy, then I am too.” 

I blink back to reality, a tear tracking down my cheek as I stare at the women in the mirror. Her sullen eyes, sunken cheekbones and hollowed features have changed so much since that night not so long ago. 

Arthur lays in bed, propped on his side. his eyes shut and face scrunched in concentration as he listens, trying so hard to remember. 

Are you happy? He would murmur–

I wipe my face, plastering a light smile, “Darling?” I say softly. 

He startles, sitting up.

 “What-yo..” he fumbles with the words, reaching for the letters his mind struggles to provide. He plucks the headphones from his ears, the loop of our wedding vows playing for the fifth time. 

“It's just me, honey. It's Clara.” 

It’ll be hard on him the longer he lives with it. The best you can do is be there for him..

I reach for the phone in his hand, pausing the track–

His hand seizes my wrist, clamping down as his eyes stay glued to the freshly washed sheets. 

“Honey, It's me. It's Clara. I'm your wife.” 

“Ca-Clara?” his eyes lift, boring into mine with a strange intensity. 

“Yes darling.”

He huffs, releasing my wrist. “I don't..understand this..” 

The phone in his hand clatters to the floor. Brows knitting together into deep, painful burrows.

“It's our vows, from when we got married.” I always speak softly to him, the last thing I want to do is make him feel out of place, or in trouble.  

But it doesn't always work. 

His eyes widen, “Ma-Married?” 

His alarmed expression makes me panic. 

“Yes..yes. You're married to me” I try to smile, to calm him. 

“I'm not..you're not my Clara. Where–” 

He shakes his head. 

It's me! I want to shout. I'm your wife, please don't panic!

But I stay quiet. Attempting to reach for him before–

My body crumples across the bed as he strikes me across the cheek. My face burning and aching as my eyes leak the tears I've tried so hard to conceal. My hand cups my swollen face, yet I dont yell, dont scream. 

If I told anybody about the aggression, they would take him. They would drag him away as his screams echo through the empty walls of our house. They would place him into a sterile white room, all alone. 

And Arthur always hated the dark. 

A sharp intake of breath sounds above me, “Cl-Clara!” 

I am dragged into his arms, weeping and frail. He shushes me, realizing what's happened, apologizing frantically and cooing at me. 

“Don't cry–god Clara, you know I hate when you cry. This woman, some horrible women took you. But you're back now. You're back, right? Clara–”

“I'm right here.” I whisper into his skin.

I wouldn't dream of pointing out the fact that his mind is playing tricks, that I never left, no...not when it's one of the few times he remembers me. 

His arms tighten around me, it's just a little too tight, it hurts just a little bit, but I close my eyes, pretending that his feeble words are quiet affirmations. That he is the same man I first married.

“Clara-” he hiccups, his own voice thick with emotion, “You went somewhere, don't leave me–”

I shut my eyes tightly, my cheek no doubt bruised. 

Stay. right here at this moment. 

I clutch his chest as he awkwardly pats at my back. But I am complacent as is, absorbing the feel of his touch before he forgets me yet again. 

Today is our fifteenth year anniversary.

During every demanding or stressful event that happened in life, Arthur was there. I gravitated around him like the moon did the earth. He was the constant in my life that always stayed the same, and I found comfort in that. I knew that even as his mind went away sometimes, that enough love could bring him back. I knew that when all was lost, the real Arthur was just…buried, stuck in the loop of hallucinations and imaginary fantasies. 

Though in my sleep, even when memories came and went, I couldn't keep the bad away forever. Because every night or so, the same terror plagued my sleep. 

The doctor's office looks the same, even the smell of the sanitizer follows the recollection. I watch from a different perspective, looking at myself. 

 I'm squeezing Arthur's hand, a silent embrace as the doctor shuts the door to the examination room. 

“Well..” he hums, taking a seat in the chair across from us. The displeasure in his voice spikes my alarm. I am gnawing at my bottom lip.

It's just a dream, I tell myself. But no, it's real. All of it. 

“It seems you have Frontotemporal Dementia. It's not common, but it is to be taken seriously. There, unfortunately, isn't a cure we’ve discovered yet, but there are some treatment-like options to outlast the inevitable.” He says solemnly. 

I observe as I gasp in horror. Tightening my grip on his hand. 

“What treatments?” I watch myself blurt. 

The doctor hesitates, Arthur hasn't spoken once. “There are antidepressants I can prescribe. They’ll help with the anger and mood swings that will take over your body as it grows with time.”

A pause. 

“As for forgetting, dementia can be tricky, it's different for everyone and there are ways to slow it down. We could try some Aducanumab, but with the mood swings along with your PTSD, there might not be a big difference–”

The doctor dissipates, the room dissolves into ash as the dream morphs into something different. I suddenly am in the car. Arthur drives, knuckles white on the steering wheel. 

“It’ll be okay.” he mutters, his voice seeming to be underwater. I watch the scenery as we drive by, but even in a dream, the weight in my chest remains. “Ill…Ill go to therapy, take all the medication. It’ll be alright.” 

He brings my knuckles to his lips, pressing soft kisses to each one as we turn into the neighborhood. 

“I'm scared Arthur–”

I jolt awake, damp sheets clinging to me. 

I hardly have time to make it before I retch in the toilet.

Blood.

The doctor prescribed medication to help with the night terrors, though I've yet to tell them about the shaking and the vomit. 

Arthur is more important. 

I get up, brush my teeth. Wash my hands…wash them again. 

One more time just to be safe. 

My cheek is a shade of green-ish/purple. Yet with the right foundation, it's barely noticeable. 

Clanking from the kitchen lures me into the room. Just in time to witness Arthur jiggling his pills. His eyes just tiny slits as he speaks to himself. 

A mug sits on the counter, a torn tea bag right beside it.

I can't make out what it is he’s saying.

Did he try to make himself tea?

“Good morning.” I rasp, my voice rough from the coughing and gagging a moment ago.

He pounds a fist at the counter. “I made..the tea–” 

“Tea wont listen..” he hisses, picking at the ripped tea bag. 

He would make me Chamomile tea every morning. 

My lips twitch, “it's alright honey, I can..”

He Slams the tea bag on the counter before I can finish, Bursting into tears His body convulsing with sobs as memory after painful memory washes over him. Paralyzing him with painstaking fear.

He's having a flashback. The doctor said this might happen.

The more lost he becomes, the more he will relive the past.

My smile drops in less than a second. “No…n-no..” 

I scurry to comfort him. 

“Darling-”

“Get off me!!” he screams, holding the cabinet tightly, curling into himself as his mind controls him. 

I Itch to wipe his tears away, just as he’d done for me so many times. I'm not supposed to interfere when he's like this. 

“Go away…away–go…go.” he whines, pursing his lips. 

I fiddle with my fingertips. Helpless against the storm raging within him. 

“I'm sorry..” I whimper, leaving to pace in the living room. I can't be there and watch him in pain. My voice breaks on a high whisper “Baby, i'm sorry…i'm so sorry–” I sob, cupping my hands around my ears. 

Make it stop..Make it stop. Please! 

I can't help him, I will never again be kissed by the loving husband that once carried me over a puddle so I wouldn't get my dress wet. 

“Clara!” he yells frantically, I hear a slam of a cupboard as his voice raises again in a frightened tone. “Clara, where are you!?” 

His voice cracks, boots thundering on the hardwood as he searches. 

I can't move. I am glued to this spot, forever guilty. Forever remembering a version of a man that does not exist. 

“You..” he whispers. Appearing in front of me by the living room entrance. His left hand curled into a tight fist, while the other held an iron skillet.

“You took my Clara?” 

I realize now that my knees are against the carpet, kneeling into the floor as he looks down at me.

“Where..where is she?” he yelps. Shaking his head. “WHERE IS MY WIFE?!”

I lift my shaking head, my brain telling me to run or shout. But I still find myself still.

Time slows as he rears back, the skillet swinging in the air. 

It's okay. 

I whisper to the darkness. 

I'm glad it was you.

With a sickening crunch. My head explodes into a throbbing, sticky mess. Thudding on the hard floor. 

It hurts like nothing ive ever experienced. Stars explode behind my eyes. 

Another hit. 

Another. 

With each pound of my head, I stare up at the ceiling. A trickle of warmth fleeting and pooling around me.

I am tired. So..very tired..

In the end, it was me and Arthur. 

This phase–

“Clara!”

–was the inevitable ending that was always meant to happen. The words scramble as I try to rearrange them. Though no matter how I place them, it is never a happy ending. Perhaps we were fated for disaster from the start.

“Clara, come back! This strange woman is..laying on the floor…I'm scared Clara..help me.. I-I don't know how to make her tea..”

My crumpled body lies cradled in the arms of a blurry figure. 

Perhaps in another life, we were meant to soar. Like the moon revolves around the earth, I too, shall find my purpose. 

Farewell, my love..