My Wife Locked Me in the Basement

My wife loves me. I remind myself of this as I stare at the steel door at the top of the stairs. I don’t try to open it. I know that it is locked. I can't remember how I know that.

I can’t remember a lot of things.

Or that's not right. I do sometimes. Time is just slippery, present devouring the past in an endless ouroboros. The memories slither to the surface before they wriggle away again, too fast for me to grasp.

I can feel them wriggling. I feel them in my ears, behind my eyes. In the throbbing in my temples.

A handful of memories, slimy and squirming and just out of reach: Once upon a time - last week, or now, or yesterday, or last year - I woke up on a soft twin mattress on the concrete floor, behind the metal shelves holding old cans of paint and forgotten household projects. The bed was warm, piled high with soft, gray blankets, but I was cold. I’ve been in this basement a hundred times, but this time it felt wrong, strange, like I wasn’t supposed to be here-

That’s it. I’m not supposed to be here. Oh Christ, how am I here? My love, what did you do? How am I here, now, this is wrong wrong wrong wrong writhing pounding squirming

I lost my train of thought. Where was I?

Right - here. The basement.

I woke up, and I was scared, alone. Cold. At some point I called for my wife, but she didn't answer. My legs felt like jelly when I tried to climb the stairs. I had to give up and crawl. I banged on the door until the skin of my palms split, leaving wide chasms of flesh, blue-gray and fish-belly pale. My hands did not bleed. Pink liquid oozed down my arms, sharp-smelling, astringent.

My wife looked sad as she stitched the skin back together. You must take better care of yourself, darling, she said. That was…yesterday. Or last year. Maybe five minutes ago. I don't know, but I know that I miss her. 

Thinking about her makes me sad, and a little frightened, but I can’t remember why. I can’t remember a lot of things.

She must have been here recently; the stitches are still there, tidy, neat lines holding the flesh together. The wound isn't healing. She told me that's normal for someone in my condition. She kissed the wounds gently, tears in her eyes. 

"You promised me forever, Leah," she whispered, rosy lips pink and lively and warm brushing over torn skin, pressed tenderly to the shiny black thread weaving in and out of stark white flesh. "We promised each other. You can't break that vow. I won't let you."

"I would never," I said. Or tried to. My jaw was locked up tight, almost like it was wired shut. My tongue was a dry, useless husk in my mouth. 

"You did, though." Tears spilled down her cheeks. She smoothed a hand over my thin, brittle hair. A few wisps caught in her wedding band. "But it's ok. I brought you back. I'll keep you safe."

"Safe is good," I mumbled. I leaned into her touch. Her body was warm. She smiled at me, but her eyes were sad. 

I didn’t mean to make her sad. I think I might be sick, but I don't feel ill. I don't really feel anything. Just the writhing, in my head. The slithering.

My wife left me this phone to call her if I need her. The screen is crushed in one corner, thick glass nearly shattered, cracks spider-webbing in thin slivers across the surface. There's a faint, brown-red stain on the case. I think it's my phone, but my wife’s number is the only one saved in the contacts. Sometimes I press the button and it rings, rings, rings. Have I called her yet today?

I don’t know the passwords for any of the apps. This one is logged in. I remember I liked coming on here, reading stories. I can't remember if I ever told any of my own.

I can't remember a lot of things. 

When I try, the writhing intensifies, entire brain squirming in my skull, gray matter thrashing against bone. 

It doesn’t hurt, at least. Nothing hurts. I think that’s a good thing. I remember pain in that elusive before. There was so much hurt, and there was shattered glass and the thick, sickly sweet scent of gasoline. It might have been a dream. It feels distant, a blurry watercolor of fear and pain. A nightmare.

It's already wriggling away.

I know I wasn't always in this basement. I remember a garden draped in fairy lights and my wife in a white dress, smiling at me. I remember her smiling at me across the kitchen counter, laughing when I accidentally dropped a whole egg into the frying pan, white shell stark in the runny yellow yolk. White like her wedding dress. White like the weather-worn boards of our front porch.

White like a silk coffin-liner. White like high-beams barrelling down the road, coming at you fast.
 
White like maggots squirming in flesh. 

White like my wife’s teeth when she smiles at me.

She smiles at me a lot. She loves me. 

Her smiles are always sad now. I can’t remember why she’s so sad. 

Maybe it's because of the dog. There is - no, there was - a dog in the road. I like dogs. I pulled the steering wheel to the right.

And then. And then...and then and then and then

STOP. It's wriggling again. I want it to stop. I SHOULDN’T BE HERE.

It's so quiet in the basement. How long have I been down here? Why is the door locked?

My fingernails are black. I don't remember painting them. I tried to chip off the polish and the whole nail slid off, thick and cracked down the middle. The skin underneath is a bluish, mottled gray. There is no blood. Just that pink, sharp liquid, cool to the touch. 

Blood is red, not pink. It's warm and thick. It gets in your eyes and your head hurts and the lights are too bright and it drips and flows and slithers and writhes and 

It doesn't hurt now - not my palms, not my fingernail, not my head. Nothing hurts. I think that's a good thing. 

It doesn't feel good.

My brain is squirming again. I think I should lie down until my wife gets back. She should be back soon. She promised. She can explain everything. Maybe she can make the slithering stop.

She's keeping me safe. That must be why the door is locked, why I can’t leave. I should keep her safe too. When she comes back, I'll make sure she stays with me. Here.

I can't remember a lot of things, but I do remember this: My wife loves me, and I love her. We promised each other forever, and we don't break our promises.