On Tonight’s Episode

*note- this story deals with mental health, abuse, and contains imagery of violence and gore

Emily parked her car and rested her head on the steering wheel. For a few minutes she sat, eyes closed, drawing in deep breaths. She leaned the seat back and smoked a cigarette, flicking the ash into a paper coffee cup, until she could taste the filter melting. Her eyes snapped toward her kitchen window as the lights flickered on.

You’re procrastinating. She scolded herself. Just get on with it!

Emily pulled into her garage. She eyed the stack of brochures the therapist had given her—support groups, emergency hotlines, inpatient facilities. She crumpled them into a ball and shoved it under her seat.

“I’m home!” she called as she walked in the door. I wonder what riveting episode is on tonight? Plastic sheeting, spray painted green, was tacked to the walls. A smoke alarm began to go off.

“Shit!” Emily followed a trail of cake batter footsteps to the kitchen to find smoke billowing from the oven. She grabbed the extinguisher, opened the door, and sprayed. The tiny fire went out. She prodded the scorched culprit with a knife, wondering what the hell it was supposed to be.

A familiar voice disguised with an unfortunately high-pitched British accent greeted her from behind.

“Bollocks! My fruit cake!” Blake cried, pointing a spatula at Emily. “Phoebe, le Saboteur! Get away from my oven!”

Emily stepped aside as Blake retrieved the smoldering abomination and dropped it onto the counter with a thud.

“You must have turned up the temperature when I wasn’t looking! I’m telling the judges!” Blake marched into the living room to address the judges: two oversized teddy bears, crowned with chefs hats, seated in lawn chairs in front of the television.

“Mary, Paul—this work environment is untenable! I refuse to participate in any more challenges until Phoebe is ejected!”

“Eject yourself, creep!” Emily sneered.

“And that filthy mouth! She is uncivilized!”

The teddy bears stared blankly with their beady black eyes. Blake stomped on the floor, causing “Mary Beary” to slump over in her chair.

“Hmph!” Blake raged down the hallway into their bedroom, slamming the door closed behind him.

Emily collapsed onto the couch.

“Ouch!” She pulled a whisk from under her butt and tossed it aside. “Tough night, huh?” She commiserated with the judges. The judges were not amused.

⸻

The following evening Emily parked in her usual spot. She unscrewed a mini bottle of wine and chugged it, watching her house wearily. She downed two more bottles and started the car. As she pulled into the driveway she could see a trickle of water streaming from under the front door.

“What in the hell!”

Inside, she found the garden hose pulled through the window, wildly spraying water all over the living room. She flung the hose out the window and slipped backwards on a puddle. As she lay on the carpet, staring at the ceiling, Blake tossed a fishing net over her.

Emily screamed and struggled to untangle herself from the net. Blake leaned over, wearing yellow rubber boots and a captain’s hat.

“Ay! We caught ourselves a monster!” he shouted triumphantly.

Again with the British accent, Emily groaned with exhaustion as she wriggled loose.

“It’s a slippery one! An enormous electric eel!” Blake turned towards an invisible camera and narrated, “The Amazon River is notorious for its population of high voltage, electric eels! They can measure up to eight feet in length and weigh fifty pounds! This behemoth might be a record breaker for River Monsters!”

“Shut up, you idiot!” Emily yelled as she grabbed his ankle.

“Ahhh! It shocked me!” Blake screamed and toppled over, landing with a squish.

“Blake!” Emily said, shaking his leg. He didn’t move.

“Blake!” Again, silence. Emily conceded.

“Captain?” She sighed.

“Yes, mate?” Blake answered, opening one eye and raising his brow. Emily shook her head. “I’m going to bed.”

⸻

Emily took her hands off the steering wheel. She drank four mini bottles of wine, smoked two cigarettes, and flipped through an issue of People magazine she had lifted from the doctor’s office.

“Show time.”

All of the windows were open. She watched curiously as something fluttered out of the window. It caught the breeze and floated like a butterfly, landing peacefully on her windshield. A dollar bill.

“That’s it!” she cried.

Emily threw open the front door. Her ears were assaulted by an industrial whirr, thrumming through the air. She turned the corner to the living room. Inside, every fan they owned was arranged in a tight circle. Even the 1970s metal-bladed death trap they kept in the attic was perched on a stool. In the center of the fans, a suitcase filled with dollar bills lay open on the floor. The fans funneled the bills into the air, creating a tornado of money. From behind, Emily was violently shoved into the vortex.

“Welcome to Fear Factor!” Blake exclaimed maniacally. “On today’s stunt—contestants will pocket as much money as possible before the timer runs out! But watch your fingers, the fans move closer every fifteen seconds!”

“Blake! This is madness!”

“45 seconds!” Blake pushed a fan at Emily, sending it crashing to the floor. He stalked around the set.

“Baby, you have to stop! You lost your job, it happens!”

“30 seconds!” He thrust another fan in her direction. She jumped over it as it fell.

“I love you!” she pleaded as he ran faster and faster around the circle.

“15 seconds!” He bellowed from behind her, knocking the box fan off of the stool. Emily screamed in pain as her head yanked backwards. Her long hair was snagged in the fan. Its blades struggled to spin as her hair knotted tighter and tighter, pulling her head closer and closer. She could feel her scalp burning, stretching, threatening to defect. In desperation, Emily launched her body forward. The fan cord ripped from the wall, causing it to careen into her head and ricochet backwards, claiming a tangle of hair attached to a chunk of scalp. She passed out from shock.

⸻

The next night, Emily parked her car. She turned on Bruce Springsteen’s I’m on Fire and closed her eyes, picturing Blake holding her tightly as they danced. Then she got out of the car and walked inside.

“Which patient are you here to see?” the receptionist asked.

“My husband—“