Better than the Original
- Writers Pouch
- Mar 25
- 9 min read
Updated: 6 hours ago
Trigger Warning: Domestic Abuse.
It’s seven. I’m stuck in slow-moving public transport, dreading the cold silence of the place I should call home. Only, no one ever taught me how to call a place like that “home.”
Like every day, I grit my teeth as I walk towards the place. There will be taunts. Do you really need the job? It’s not like you are earning too well. Why don’t they let you go early? You should tell them that you travel a lot to get to work. You should switch to a job that offers remote work.
My husband opens the door and smiles. A smile? No—he doesn’t smile. He smirks, sarcastically. I must have misread it. I smell something delicious and look around to find hot sambar, rice, and gravy.
“You ordered food?” I asked with a frown. Surely, I am not that late. Now the bill would be another taunt on my housekeeping skills, a topic of gossip for his siblings and parents at next weekend’s dinner. I repressed a shudder.
“Ah, no,” my husband replied calmly. The porch light flickered; he rolled his eyes at it as he added, “I cooked.”
He cooked? Did hell freeze over? I didn’t even know he knew how to. I tried to remember when he last cooked. He never did, not when I was dead-on-foot tired, not when I am on periods, and definitely never when I am sick… Then why now?
I turned around. He was already looking back at me…
My gut clamped down.
I loosened my shoulders before they could betray me. “I am glad then.”
He nodded and smiled. Smiled again, an expression so foreign on my husband’s face that I stared. It had to be a miracle that he cooked. He never does anything nearly as thoughtful. His face does a twitch when he sneers, and that’s the only detail I seem to remember precisely. His taunts have now become a voice in my head. All you know are five dishes that you repeat every week. Now what? Should I give you an award for being a bare minimum woman? I stared at the person in front of me until my eyes blurred. The silence without the taunts is too loud.
“Go… Wash up… I will set the table,” he says softly.
I look down so he doesn’t see the alarm on my face. My feet start moving before I start hyperventilating in front of him. Retreating to the shower as if hot water will scald this feeling off.
But what… I couldn’t quite point it out. Should I call Mom or my sister?
I could imagine how that would go. “No, Mom… It’s just a vibe all right… The guy in the house is not my husband… Why? Why? Ok, for starters, he is warm, while my husband is not… He made the freaking dinner… my husband never does that… He is currently setting the dinner table… Did you ever see my husband do that? Like ever?” I would say all that, and then what? Nothing would really happen except that I’d be outing my unhappy self. All that I kept under a tight lid will spill out.
The fogged mirror in the shower squeaked as I wiped it. My eyes glazed over my own reflection. Every time I look in the mirror, I close my eyes to find myself already running through the wilderness, a spectre chasing. Him. The husband. A breath behind my neck. His hands are at my throat. Today, the nightmare shifted.
There is no breath behind me.
I stop running.
I stand there, listening for something that isn’t there.
