Zita

You are busy finishing your caramel apple when you see her. Her long, blond hair is being whipped into a frenzy by the wind. Her eyes are a very unique shade of honey brown. Peeking out from her flat denim jacket is the prettiest striped suit you’ve ever seen. She catches you looking at her. A mischievous smile plays across her plump lips. It is, definitely, love at first sight.

After a year of tremendous convincing for your parents, you get married to her. ‘The perfect match' your friends call you. What they don’t know is that neither of you is perfect. Despite being fiercely in love with each other, both of you have your differences. Every night there is a fight, a fight that leads to Zita breaking into tears. A fight that leads to her leaving your house. A fight that leads to her threatening you to tell everyone your secret. Your secret -- a secret nobody knows about, except for Zita. ‘I’ll kill her.’ Every night you make a vow to yourself. ‘I won’t.’ Every morning you break it. 

It has been three years and a few months since the two of you got married but Zita hasn’t gotten any better.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why is she like this?

The words are always hard for her – not quite a stutter, more like each syllable is a stone she has to bring forth. You are sitting at the table waiting for your breakfast to arrive. ‘Useless' your mum calls you. You don’t even know how to make your own stupid breakfast. You bark, telling Zita to bring your breakfast or else you’ll go to the office without having any. Scared steps approach you. There is a clink of a glass and then…"NOT AGAIN!!!” you shout. She has dropped breakfast all over your clothes. Without giving a second thought, you slap her. You grab her hair and drag her all the way up to the attic. You hit her again and again and again until she passes out. 

You've always been angry-- at the world, at your parents, at life. Zita, being so close to you, begins to bear the brunt of your anger. W-why? W-why? W-why? W-why? W-why? Why do you do this?

You return from the office but Zita is not at her usual place: the kitchen. You knock your room's door and enter without waiting for her to answer. Ah, there she is. Her left eye is swollen. Her lower lip split open and there is a scar from her right eye to her left ear. That’s what you did to her. All for mishandling your breakfast? “I’m sorry,” you begin with your everyday apology. And just like every day, she forgives you with all her heart.

New day. New fight. She wants to go to parties with you. You refuse. She insists, forgetting that you aren’t one of those husbands who let their typical wives take control over them. Your first instinct is to ignore her. But, out of habit you push her, you slap her until she screams. Until she begs you, promises you that she won’t ask for going with you ever again. 

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why can't she go with you?

In the evening, you return home to find the air filled with a tantalizing aroma, warm as newly baked bread hot from the oven, -- to your surprise, it’s the Doughnuts. She has done it again. You throw away your office bag, undo your tie, lie down on the sofa and close your eyes. Suddenly, you feel soft, warm hands taking off your socks. Out of the corner of your slightly opened eyes, you see Zita. She is moving in feverish haste, anxious to get going. You get up and cast her one of ‘your looks.’ She smiles a weak smile in return and quickly leaves the room. You are gobbling your fifth doughnut when something comes rushing into your mind. She didn’t make those just out of love for you. It’s your fourth wedding anniversary. Ugh...you forgot it. Again! 

W-why? W-why? W-why? W-why? W-why? Why did you forget it?

You enter your room just to find it decorated with rosemary and Jasmine. This is definitely a punch in the gut for you. Not only did you forget such an important occasion but you also forgot to bring her a gift. You approach Zita but this time with small, calculated steps. She is crying. The mascara on her eyes is smeared. She is wearing nothing on her face except for the weak smile which she puts up when she sees you approaching. You take her hands in yours. To your surprise, they are cold and trembling. You look straight into her eyes and realize just how scared she is…of you. No, not you. She’s scared of the monster in you.

Ashamed, you get up and leave the room.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why are you such a monster?

The next day you buy a ring for her. A ring so beautifully embedded with diamonds. Zita would definitely love it, you think. “Eight hundred dollars, please.” Quickly, you handover the handsome amount to the shop owner. The money is nothing as compared to the love you’ve for Zita(apparently).

While driving, your phone is constantly buzzing on your car's dashboard. You ignore the calls thinking it’s just Zita to ask why have you been late. While waiting at the traffic signal you get a chance to have a look at your phone. It’s June, your neighbor. There are not one, not two but four missed calls from her side. You call her back and it is at that moment when the traffic signal turns green. Honk. Honk. The number you’ve dialed is not responding at the moment. Please try again later. Thank you. Honk. Honk. The number you’ve dialed is not responding at the moment. Please try again later. Thank you. Honk. Honk. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit... You even lose the count of how many times you say that word. 

Your phone is ringing again. It’s thankfully, June.

'Hello?'

'Hey, everything good?'

'No, it’s…its Zita.'

'What about her?'

'She’s…she’s dying. She just won't let me take her to the hospital.'

Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying.

You know how when you’re driving and skid on ice or just avoid hitting the deer, you find yourself with your heart racing and your hands shaking and your blood went to ice. That’s what June's words have done to you.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? is all you can think.

Once you reach home, you get out of your car without even closing the door.

“Zita! Zita?"

You’ve checked your room. The bathroom. The dining hall. The garage. The courtyard. The attic… no, you didn’t check the attic. Once at the attic, you search frantically for her. There she is. You take her hand in yours. “Why? Why did you do this?” A weak smile blossoms across Zita's dying face. “ I – I love yo—you but I must gg -- go” “No, no, please. Don’t do this to me. What have you done? Why did you do this?” But, this time she doesn’t reply. Her eyes roll into their sockets, white and blind. And, all you are left with is a dead Zita.