Slippage

It began with a stain. Well, not really. It began with a great many things but if we have to start somewhere the stain is as good a place as any.

The stain was old and foul. An abomination on the face of their otherwise homely white carpet.

It was Homer's fault of course. He had always been Mary's dog. He got him for her on their anniversary as a means to compensate for his always being away on business.

The dog had urinated on the carpet but they hadn't noticed it right away. Mary found it first one day, far back in a corner and behind their couch, while she was cleaning house. By then though it had turned the sluggish colour of molasses and appeared several weeks old. Try as she might she couldn't get it out so finally they decided to rearrange the furniture and conceal it with a small potted plant they bought at the Depot. There it remained until it was forgotten.

He found himself thinking of that stain a lot in the weeks after his wife's suicide. People would come and go expressing their condolences and offering bouquets of flowers with little cards sticking out of them saying things like, "our deepest sympathies," or, "so sorry for your loss." He would flash a mechanical smile and utter a few words of thanks then place the flowers in a corner next to the potted plant he had bought so long ago.

He took to sleeping on the couch because he couldn't bear the thought of sleeping in the same bed he had once shared with his wife.

I say sleeping but that's the wrong word. He slept only in as much as a zombie may sleep. He did dream, however, and in some dreams the whole terrible business of his wife's suicide would fade and she would suddenly be there, just as he remembered her, and he would start to cry. And every time he'd reach out to touch her she'd melt through his embrace and he'd be jolted back to the present, blood shot and teary. Sometimes he would even fall off the couch. He'd lie there, on his side, staring under the coffee table to the corner with all the bouquets of flowers. Somewhere behind all that was the little potted plant they (he) bought and underneath it
(Mary's)
Homer's
(blood)
Stain.

Our minds are funny things. His is a riot. It tells him things--crazy things--sometimes, late at night, when the dreams don't come. Things like his wife's death wasn't a suicide. Things like he never had a dog.

Things like YOUKILLEDHERYOUKILLEDHERYOUSONUVABITCHYOUFUCKINGMURDERINGSONOFAWHOREYOUKILLEDHER!!!

Crazy things.

Post-traumatic stress, ask anybody. Happens to about eight out of ten cases. Eight-out-of-ten. His doctor gave him some pills. "Perfectly normal," he said.

Still... that stain. Something should be done. It's not right. Perfectly good house; god-awful stain. It's not the stain, per se, but what it represents. It started out as little problems, easily fixable, if only he had known; paid just a little bit more attention; stayed home more often. But by the time he found out she was already dead. By the time he found out the stain was so deep it was impossible to remove. Like a kernel of corn stuck in your teeth in the middle of a dinner party. Everything's perfect but there's that one, tiny, fucking piece of corn that won't come out. The stain in the carpet. The mote in God's eye.

The slip is coming. It's getting harder to hold. His thoughts wriggle out of his grasp like silver fish. He looks down at his hands. Two of the nails have torn clean off and the rest are chipped and bloody. It doesn't matter. It'd probably be easier with the proper tools but there's no time. That stain's got to go now. He neglected the task for too long and this is his punishment. It seeped through the carpet. He cursed Homer. Straight through the oak wood floor below. Damn dog did it just to spite him! Even as the splinters dig into his flesh he knows it has gone much deeper. But that's okay. He's got time. He'll get it all out. He's determined. He's got all the time in the world.