The Cabin

CW: Some sexual content

Part 1: The Storm

My husband is a cold and indifferent thing; try as I might to understand him, I never will. A nebulous cruelty he is, a perpetual and eternal albatross. I call him a secret name to myself, "that raven on the window ledge." This is partly due to his seemingly fixed state of forever being the observer, and partly due to any involvement he does choose to intact being associated with metaphorical death or rot of some sort. When he feigns interest in me, or maybe it is genuine, who can tell anymore, dread sets within me, and I expect doom afar off or perhaps already at the door.

When we arrive at the cabin, the storm is already coming in, and the mountains are enveloped in a swirl of white. I look into the hazel of his eyes, and already within me grows despair. His eyes have that evil, that meditation of misery and loathing, of lament that they were foisted into being. It's not that he means this, to come across like this. But the focus of thought is almost palpable, and through this prayer of darkness, I see that he is slowly becoming involved.

And I am in great fear.

Part 2: The Cabin

My wife troubles me greatly and stirs sentiments of anxiety and uncertainty within me. Fear and uncertainty trouble me greatly in general, but doubly, no triple so, when it comes to Emily. This world is hard, and even its mercy is ungiving and tinged with scorn, so I do what I can to make sure our small part of the chaos is habitable. More than habitable, as close to paradise as could be. She doesn't understand what I go through. What I know I go through. I want to tell her. I do, it's just-

The storm is setting in. I try everything I can to keep the windshield clear, but it's getting bad. I feel that omnipresent, little ball of dread that has always been in me like an undelivered baby begin to grow. I try to keep it furtive, Emily can sense these things. She possesses a sixth sense of sorts. Sometimes, when my paranoia wanders into murkier areas of the inner black, I suspect she might be psychic.

"Visibility is getting a little iffy, but we're less than a mile out, I'd wager, maybe a little less."

I say this to uplift, and after a turn of the head and a smile, I think it worked. This works for me as well. The storm has frightened me, and I feel oddly put at ease by my false prophecy. Perhaps we were close to the cabin.

And after a mile more of driving, lo and behold.

Still, my dread remains.

Part 3: The Cabin 2

My husband is a mysterious and oftentimes irksome man, but he is also a delightful one. We arrive at the cabin in under a mile, Guy giving me a cocky grin that says "I told you so" as he parks in the snow covered driveway.

When we arrive inside, Guy grabs my hand and pulls me with glee, saying to forget the luggage for now. He puts me against the wall and kisses me with passion. More passion than he has in a long time. He puts his crotch against my upper thigh, and I feel the passion there. I put my hand there, and with a roll of the head, he releases a groan, and his eyes become empty. Sex and alcohol are the only times his eyes lose hold of the obsidian that so often clouds them.

After sex, our bodies nude on the hardwood, Guy asks what I want for dinner. He says he stocked the fridge with meats a few days prior, and there's a new and unused grill somewhere in the back. I turn to him with a smile and say whatever he thinks will be best.

"Lamb chops it is", he replies. I tell him I'll help him make dinner and ask what he wants to go with the lamb. He replies pasta with olive oil and spices of my choosing. He says he likes my pasta and that it reminds him of his mother's cooking.

Throughout the evening, we prepare and make dinner. I go back and forth between the cabinets and stove, Guy joking that I look like his mother. That I look like a mother. I feel a sinking feeling within me.

Part 3: Malehood a sin, and brotherhood a lie

My darling is a thing of beauty, something divine. I haven't considered myself a religious man since my early youth, but she is the closest I've come to worship since. Maybe more so. She doesn't answer the question to life's mysteries, but she gives me much pleasure and happiness. What more can a man ask? To seek more is folly.

After we make love, we prepare dinner. Emily looks like my mother as she does, which I find funny and maybe even comforting.

"Get off of it, Guy", the boys from the company would say. "You know that stuff's not true, not real. This...this here is real."

I would turn to see rows upon rows of code, each one a part of a new creation.

I'm good at my job, but I don't like my job. I don't like the people I work with, and I don't like the feelings the environment fosters and brings about within me. When I am with Emily, I feel my most human. If there is a God, it must surely be her.

Part 4: That Obsidian

My husband is a source of my hate. Every time I look at him, I feel a wrath burn within me. After we eat dinner, another session of lovemaking is had. We haven't had sex this much in months. Maybe a year. He says he'll clean up the dishes, and I depart to shower. When I leave the shower, Guy sits sunk in the corner desk, observing rows of code on the screen. I come and squeeze his shoulder, but he is unresponsive. That obsidian has once again taken root in his eyes, and I depart.

I use this as an opportunity to explore the house. I've never been here, and Guy himself only once or twice. It was his uncles, based on the few times he's spoken about him, a reclusive and quiet man. After he passed, and the will was read, the cabin was shockingly left to Guy. Guy has told me how his uncle was close with him when he was an adolescent and teen, so I chalk it up to that.

The outside of the cabin is deceiving, the interior quite large. I walk down corridors that echo, on the walls family portraits of people I recognize, and people I don't. A stand holds old high school football and baseball trophies from the seventies. Further down, another framed photo, this one of Guy's uncle, in his early twenties, I assume, accepting a reward for computer science. I guess that factors into his fondness for Guy.

I continue down the hall and then left, another hall, but shorter. I look up and see the opening for an attic. I look around and spot a stool beside a hallway stand, bringing it over, and the height is just enough to reach it. I open the door, and a ladder descends. I replace the stool with the ladder and ascend.

In the attic, dust and old boxes. I peruse the collection, as Guy and I are recently married, so, in a way, this is my cabin too. Old photos, mainly of Guy's uncle and dad, a few sports photos. In another, tools and repair instruments, greasy and stained. In another, books upon books, at the bottom a primeval obsidian leather book with a strange symbol or glyph. Its appearance is odd, but akin to three question marks circling each other. Its ink was yellow. The book has a peculiar, unpleasant odor, so I put the books back in the box and leave the attic.

After this quasi-tour, I go to the kitchen and fix myself a margarita before heading upstairs to the bedroom. On my way to and from the kitchen, I pass Guy, who still sits hunched in the living room, unresponsive. I likewise take a break for work and get out my laptop, looking through the latest quarterly reports for Miskatonic and Grogan Consulting. This oddly puts me at ease, and I sip my margarita.

Part 5: The Curse

My wife is the mother of my fear. From her gestates my uncertainty. After dinner, which was lovely, we have sex again. I am in love with my wife, and I miss the feel of her body. The softness. I clean the kitchen afterwards as she showers. Towards the end, I receive a call from Todd, who says there's a problem with the upcoming update and that I need to take a look. And so I do. After several minutes, I come to the conclusion that Philip has done it wrong, so decide to fix it. I feel that sensation come back, that weight within me. That dread. It's not because of the work, but the work definitely worsens it. I've felt this since I was a young man; it's beginning, I can't say for certain, though I know I was still early in my youth. The blackness that grows from within, and threatens perpetually to consume me whole.

When Emily is in the shower, I take a small break to go onto the porch. Even in my wool peacoat and scarf, I feel the bitter cold. The storm seems to have worsened; before me, a blinding and rushing white. I go back inside and complete my job, afterwards that feeling still remaining. I look for Emily and find her in the room; she seems to be working and drinking a margarita. Likewise, I go and make myself a drink- an old-fashioned, and read a book. Still, the feeling remains. After a while, I go back to the room and see Emily lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I wish to go in, to love my wife, and connect with another human being, but the ebony is still there within me and takes from me all my passion, all my energy, all that makes me a man. I wish that there were someone, something out there that could take from me this wretched weight. But I know there isn't.

I hate it. I truly, truly do.

Part 6: A problem we can fix

My husband confounds me. His gaze upon me shifts from love, passionate and burning, to apathy. One morning, he's as certain to greet my waking face with a plant of a kiss as the sun is to rise, another, to shrinking from my touch at night. It seems as if in him are multiple men, each taking possession of the body at different times.

Come this morning, I wake to find myself alone in bed. When I descend the stairs I find Guy cooking breakfast in the kitchen as he dances to soul music. When he sees me, he beckons me over, and we dance. After breakfast, Guy again cleans the dishes and disappears to the attic to begin organizing it. When he's up there, his laptop dings, I look at it and see a notification from Todd, saying the rework Guy did was good, but if he can improve upon it before release.

I don't mean this as an insult, far from it, as it's one of the aspects of him I adore, but Guy is a soft and gentle man, easily molded and prodded by others. I think this true for his workplace as well. I wish he would stand up more for himself there, but if the words came from me, I believe a sourness would accompany them.

I look outside, the windows spotted with ice patches, and the cabin enveloped in a tempest. The storm seems to be getting worse. I wonder how long it will last.

Suddenly, I hear a loud thud come from the attic. I quickly rush up, Guy under a pile of boxes. I ask if he's okay, and he replies, "Yes, I just accidentally bumped into an already lopsided stack." I try to help him up, but he waves me away, saying he's fine and wants to get back to organizing. So I depart. As I descend the attic ladder, the house shakes briefly, and the lights flicker for a moment. The storm continues to worsen.

Later, around the afternoon, Guy descends the attic and inquires what I want for lunch. I respond I am fine with whatever. He says hamburgers and salad. As he walks, I notice a slight limp, a development I attribute to the fall in the attic. Guy offers to cook again, but I say I want to. He makes me a margarita as I do, the house shaking again and the lights flickering. We both look at each other, Guy saying the storm is bad, but that the cabin is also old, and in need of repair. He says we're alright - it's a problem we can fix.

We eat lunch and it is good, afterwards Guy returning to the attic. Before he leaves, though, he plants a kiss on my forehead and looks at me with eyes that seem cloudy. He briefly raises his hand to caress my hair, and seems ready to say something weighty, before only saying the burgers were very good, and thank you for making them.

After this, I make myself another margarita and decide to finish up some work before the deadline. I don't do this out of fear or pressure, like I feel Guy does, but because I am bored. The hours devour the day, and soon it is night. Guy has been in the attic most of the day. I pass halls inked in shadow and see the attic ladder descended. I ascend and see Guy crouched in the corner, muttering to himself as he places a box on a sizable stack, several others next to it. I ask if he wants some help, and that it's gotten late, but he waves me away with surprising wrath, and I leave. As I descend, the house shakes once more, and the lights flicker, this time going out. I fall.

Part 7: My whole body longs for you in this parched and weary land where there is no water

My wife gives my life meaning. I only thought happiness, and pleasure, but I have realized through her I have been roped in the spinning void. Attached to something. Anchored. I do not believe that man is born with purpose, but rather that he must find it.

And I have.

After lunch, I return to the attic. I wish desperately to tell Emily how much I love her, how much she means to me, but can't. It's as if something in me hides it away, my lips stitched shut. In the attic, I feel my mood worsening. I don't know it's because of the storm, or my work, or my inability to tell my wife I love her, or that little, black dot that forever grows within me, but it causes a sinking within me that's almost palpable. For some reason, I am on the verge of tears. Perhaps there is a metaphysical evil. Something that grows internally - in that void space that all humans have.

The day goes quickly, and Emily comes to visit. I am in a foul mood. My uncle's unorganized collection of strange gibberish does little to help, and indeed, I suspect it makes it worse. I tell Emily to leave, and she does. I go back to my inheritance of boxes, and moments later, hear a thud as the lights go out.

I've seldom felt fear like this. Like breaking from a spell, I rip myself from my uncle's disarray and run through dark space, descending the ladder. I say Emily's name as I walk the hall, her voice faintly saying "here". I crouch next to her and pull her into my arms. The lights are still off, and the house shakes. I hold her in my arms.

Even in the dark, I can see my wife; she glitters like diamond beneath the earth. I hold her in my arms. I began to say something, but again the internal evil pulls it back. I fight it with a strength fueled by hatred, not love. I hate that thing. I see the light - I see my wife, and I say-

"I love you, Emily. My soul thirsts for you, my whole body longs for you in this parched and weary land where there is no water."

Part 8: His eyes were clear

I love my husband's eyes when I can see them. The lights turned back on, but that's not what I mean. The cloud, the haze, was gone, and he saw me, and I saw him. And I said I loved him too. The house shook a few moments before stopping. We arose, and proceeded slowly through hallway floors now cluttered with glass from fallen photos. At the end, an ice covered window, but outside the storm had ended. Guy sighed, observing the damage. I told him it's okay.

We can fix it.