Two white lies

DISCLAIMER: TRIGGER WARNING: Violence, Physical abuse, Sexual imagery, Mental abuse, Profanity, Death.

You're already wondering what the twist is, aren’t you? Well, here is a twist for you: there isn’t one. I am just a man. Mourning deeply.

But first, a little about me before I dive into my story. 42, divorced... twice, no children (regrettable choice in hindsight), professor in English and PhD in journalism. When I'm not reading books (which is most of the time), I watch documentaries; I tend to be fascinated in particular with ones of true crime; binging a documentary of a cold-hearted serial killer must be one of my favourite pastimes, I suppose, until it became a disturbing reality of my own. Caitlyn. My wife. Obnoxiously smart, infectious smile, misleading eyes. The moment she stepped into my class, I knew I needed her.

For a long while after, she became my everything. I guess you could have called her home, as homely as the saying could be after everything. That was the thing with Caitlyn; life was always such a roller coaster, much like her emotions are. Were. She was impulsive and free, led by her feelings, not a care travelling through her; it was her world - people were just living in it. Sometimes, on rare occasions, this would make me snap. My fuse would run short, and I would have this unhinged desire to lash out. The minute this thought crossed my mind, every ounce of my body would feel a wave of guilt, and shame. The truth is, I didn’t; it was all internalised.

You see, I am an old soul, and to lay hands on a woman in my generation would be to admit you are such a low-life coward that you cannot even respect the sex that once brought upon your mere existence. Once married, divorced, married again, divorced again, until I met her. Bright-eyed, youthful complexion, no older than 21. I wanted to bury my teeth into her, respectfully.

This all started one afternoon, rather randomly, say early October, she knocked on my door. “Professor Davis?”, “Are you available?”

For you, my love, always.

If there is one thing I have learnt in all my documentary scouring, it’s how not to become their next victim. I call it “The Safe Seven”. 7 rules. Rule number 1: Never leave your door open to visitors. This is a pretty straightforward one, but some may need reminding for people not as competent.

I’m not entirely sure when we crossed the line between ‘friendly’ and ‘personal’, but it was not long after. Most Sundays, she would come to my vineyard, taste grapes, sip wine, pretend to have even the slightest idea of what a decent wine tastes like. At that time, her years for wine 'connoisseurship' were pleasantly ahead of her. I’d sit there, staring at her, grateful I had met her, at the same time wishing timing was more in our favour. Being in my middle 40s and being her tutor meant a threat for ‘power play’ in the eyes of the law, and any ‘normal’ relationship was out the window. Regularly, she would ask me to retire, like she had the faintest idea of how life works. “I can’t just retire, Caitlyn”, “It’s a process”, was always my stock response.

Undoubtedly, the inevitable came along. The sneaking around, the trips away, it all began to lose its spark, and slowly, the passion that once ignited throughout us when stepping foot in the same room… died.

We never spoke about this dilemma; it just festered, like an infected wound. Until one day, I saw Caitlyn kissing someone, except that person was not me. How can I get mad at somebody for acting their age? She was young, free. Wild. Who was I to try to tame her, mould her?

Rule number 2: Never befriend a killer. It must be said, however, that if you have unknowingly befriended one, ensure you remain on their good side; longevity is more probable this way.

She didn’t tell me about it after it happened, of course, but I began to notice things about her that I didn’t notice before. Her lips, that of which always had a distinctive red, plump tinge to them, began looking bruised, overused almost. I think the most obvious one was the smell. Most weekdays after claiming to have got to see her ‘girlfriends’, she came back smelling like she’d swam in cologne. This one hurt the most. I suppose it sealed the reality of it for me. By this point, it wasn’t just a kiss; it was an affair, and by this point, it had been going on for over six months.

I began wondering if this heartache was worth it. Sharing a body that once ached to be near me, now on somebody else, so effortlessly. I didn’t want to leave her; I didn’t want to share her. Day and night, I pondered on how I could keep her close, how I could reignite that spark.

I decided on taking her to the Hamptons one weekend. Caitlyn lapped this idea up, as I knew she would. A holiday, fine dining, money... thrown at her. My plan was working; all I needed now was for her to say 'yes'.

I was so desperate to keep her close, so desperate that I made her finger heavy. But it wasn’t heavy from love; admittedly, it was control, a way to keep her close to me. But Caitlyn didn’t need to know this, after all, what is one white lie, when she has secrets too?

Married life was fun, fun for the first year. I retired, and in hindsight, against my better judgment, but we travelled, and I loved being her husband. I loved being the only one for her.

Rule number three: If possible, avoid going to what is known as a ‘second location’ with the killer. Fight them, if you must.

Everything seemed so much better, and since retiring, it meant our affections toward one another could manifest outside of four walls. We kissed everywhere, and it no longer mattered, because I was more than her teacher, I was her spouse, and for as long as she breathes, she will always be my perfect wife.

This was, of course, until she landed her first job in corporate.

She began working a lot—long days, late nights, and seemingly a lot of networking opportunities. I tried not to let my overprotective, overly jealous streak get the best of me, and reminded myself that she would not have said yes had she not loved me. One night, however. All it took was one night.

Caitlyn was working late, as per her standard. I was in bed, on my computer, when, rather randomly, Caitlyn’s name popped up on LinkedIn.

I clicked on the banner. “LinkedIn?” I smirked to myself, “She must be getting old”.

Just as I was about to dismiss her profile from my screen, I saw it. ‘Followed by Caitlyn’. My mouse stopped. Finger muscles froze. Chest tightening.

“Him.”

“It’s him.”

“Eric Kenneth”, I read out to myself, his name brittle on my tongue.

Unwanted flashbacks began to stimulate my mind, taking me back to when I found Caitlyn kissing him. I began to search through his profile, not minding the fact that my viewing would notify him, and lo and behold, his place of work was the same as my wife’s. They worked together.

Everything began to add up. The late nights. The networking. Was it actually work? Were they just fucking? Paranoia began to set in.

Rule number four: Leave that relationship, you know, the one built on abuse, not love. The control. The manipulation. The ‘accidental’ lashing out? Whether emotional or physical, it will always get worse. Leave.

By the time I had finished my internet stalking, the door went. It was her. How could I look at her and know what she had done to me, again? Was marrying me not enough? Was my money not enough? I left everything for her, to chase her, to have her, and she couldn’t leave a boy for me?

It wasn’t fair. I had her first.

I bit my tongue and held my breath as she made her way over to my side of the bed.

“You’re up late”, she exclaimed, in a slightly inebriated voice, “What’s up, babe?”

Still. Silent. Speechless. I couldn’t fathom a word to her, not after what I had just found out.

“Okay then”, she mumbled.

Her oblivion fed my anger. I couldn’t tell if, in that moment, I hated her for her actions or myself for mine. I felt foolish to believe that such a young, beautiful, complexioned girl was interested in me, a retired divorcee; all I really have going for me is my pension.

Rule number five: If you can, keep your location visible to a trusted safety net, such as family and friends.

An hour went by, and by this point she was in bed, back turned, on her phone, judging by the dull light cornering one half of the ceiling.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” I asked.

“Eh, networking, you know what they’re like. A room full of strangers who are trying to convince others that they’re better than the person next to them.”

I paused. “Was it just strangers?”

Caitlyn replied dismissively. “Yes, babe, just strangers, you’d have hated it!”

“Did you hate it, Caitlyn?”

“Wouldn’t say I loved it”

I paused, again. “Not even seeing Eric?”

Silence flooded the room. The phone light dimmed and went dark, almost as if she had fallen asleep, or pretended not to hear my question.

“How long have you been fucking him, Caitlyn?”

Caitlyn gasped quietly. Anger overwhelmed me.

“How long, Caitlyn?”

She pleaded that it was new.

“LIAR!” I struck her, but this time, I didn’t feel anything.

She jumped up, and as she did, a whiff of cologne powdered the air. The same cologne I had smelt on her skin before we married.

My blood ran cold as the following words left my mouth, “You were with him tonight, weren’t you, Caitlyn?”

At this point, Caitlyn stood by the bathroom door, hands over her face, whimpering.

I let out a deep, considered sigh before asking her one again.

She could only reply with “I-I’m sorry, Mark”.

Slowly, I got up.

Rule number six: Avoid at all costs, making a killer angry.

Which leads me to conclude all six so far, taking from this, if feasible, not to approach, invite, communicate, welcome or vex a killer, as these things will enhance the probability of you being their next victim; which leads me on to the final rule, Rule number seven: Never marry a killer.

Unfortunately, my wife couldn’t see this one through.

I suppose you could say the twist was what I mourned. It wasn’t my wife that I missed; it was controlling her, and once I knew I couldn’t do that, what good is she? Because, like my other wives, if I couldn’t have her, nobody could.