Hero

         On the eve of impending doom, we sit at opposite ends of the table, you staring into your Wheat Chex and me seeing what I can spell with my Cheerios. We haven’t spoken in days. I knock over the pepper shaker in desperation.
         Notice me.
         I’m regressing.
         I’m the crying child in the supermarket, the restaurant, the movie theatre.
         Please notice me.
         You say nothing. You only reach over and flip the shaker upright. Your hand brushes past mine and I have to bit my tongue. You only want the newspaper.
         Where did our chemistry go? Our covalent bond is losing its grip, and I have to say, with every pound you lose, every electron, I love one percent of my love for you.
         I flip over the salt this time and tighten my expression as you flip the pages.
         Say something.
         Scream at me.
         Belittle me.
         I’m a glutton for your insults because even they are attention. I feed on positivity or negativity.
         When I counted my steps down the aisle and choked up during my vows, did I trip?
         Did I stutter?
         “Do we have any milk?” I hear your voice ask.
         “No,” I say and glare at you over my glasses, “You used the last of it.”
         You grunt.
         This isn’t what we promised our life would be. You opened the door with me in your arms and dropped me onto the bed. We lay there reading comic books, and you joked about Frank Castle and called me Mary Jane. In reality, I was destined to be the Black cat, disappointed with the man under your mask. I expected a hero with no Achilles heel.
         It’s time for work, 8 solid hours of nodding with small breaks of scribbling in a notebook and murmuring quiet, tranquilizing words. Cruel irony bites at my skin as I write down venomous words of my clients. In college, they said this work would be rewarding. They’re obligated to say that. If those liberal professors admitted that my only prize would be an opportunity to ruin my own marriage, I would’ve switched my major to hospitality management or acting.
         I take the subway into work. My face is known there. My number one fan is a woman who lives alone.
         “Mary, she says, “I found a new cat outside my house today. I need to name him.
         I don’t look away from the window. “How do you know he’s a guy?”
         She ignores my question. “How’s Pete doing?”
         I clench a fist in the pocket of my coat and regain my posture.
         Count to ten.
         Take a deep breath.
         Go to your happy place.
         I change the subject. “It’s so ironic how your last name is Christmas, yet you’re Jewish.”
         She chuckles, “I wrote a term paper on that once.”
         With a smirk I ask, “What did you get on it?”
         “A D,” she scoffs and files her long claws. “That was the one teacher who I wouldn’t sleep with.”
         “You’re one crazy cat lady,” I laugh and the train comes to a stop.
         I sit in the leather chair, waiting. My brown shoe taps against the green carpeting. Today, today is the day I meet with a man. His name is Oliver. His dynamic personality is what had initially driven me to him, but his tall stature and electric blue eyes persuaded me to join him in bed.
         “Hi, Babe,” his low voice rings from the door.
         I start drawing distressed lines in my notebook.
         “You don’t need to take notes on my greeting,” he says dryly.
         I take a deep breath.
         This is birthing class all over again. The vegan woman stands behind me and places her hands on my shoulders. Her soy breakfast smoothie breath invades my nose.
         “Giving birth is stressful, but for the well being of your baby, you must let it be born into a calm environment. So you must breathe in and out, in through your mouth and out your nose.
         Dear Guardian Angel Elena, give me patience.
         Fast forward to me into the “deluxe birthing suite” in the closest hospital I could find in Vegas. It was months before the estimated delivery date. I hadn’t planned this. Imagine my lack of surprise when I’m pushing and doing ineffective deep breathing in the chaos. Imagine my surprise when my daughter is stillborn. Before I can stop myself, I think, “Maybe that tree hugger was right.”
         I spend the next hour speaking to him about you. I write on my paper:
         “Consistent display of classic masculine competition.”
         “What are you writing?” he asks for the thirtieth time in the session. He bites his finger.
         “I’m writing the name of a new marriage counselor for you,” I mutter and scribble some more.
         “Oh, come on, Babe,” he chuckles as he stands. I look up and he’s inches from my face. “Run away with me.”
         I shrug him off. “Your time is up,” I say and open the door for him.
         He leans to deliver a kiss to my lips, but I turn my face and he misses.
         “Why don’t we kiss no more, Babe?”
         His cologne and applesauce breath strangle me.
         On the ride home, a familiar cloud of darkness surrounds me. Ms. Christmas isn’t there tonight. My eyes scan my surroundings. A kid with dreadlocks tells his friend he’s smarten while on acid and a man with headphones that cover his ears sings country in a long vibrato. I think of the possibilities of what could go wrong.
         A bomb could detonate.
         Poisonous gas could radiate.
         I could take one wrong step off the train and miss the platform, falling at the most perfect moment and being hit by another train. All my escapes were planned out escapes, just anticipatory coping, a continuous journey for peace.
         Dear Guardian Angel Elena, please help me save my soul.
         I step into the front door and see you and our lawyer talking.
         “Hi, Fred, how are the kids?”
         “Good, Pete! How’s your dead baby? Let’s discuss your prenup.”
         It’s just renovated small talk.
         “What’s going on?” I ask as I hang my peacoat in the closet.
         “I want a divorce,” you say.
         I stare at you and simply say, “No.”
         “It wasn’t a question. I want a divorce,” you say angrily and advance on me.
         The attention attracting child in me is cheering.
         “Yes, notice me! Come here and teach me a lesson! Thank you, thank you.”
         “Well, Pete, we’re not getting a divorce. Though, I am happy that you have taken strides towards working against your decision aversion.”
         You slam your fist onto the table, causing our small lawyer to jump back in surprise.
         “Mary, stop with the psychology bullshit! You are a mental manipulator and you will not twist your affair in any other way than making yourself look like the lying, distrustful piece of crap that you are.”
         The child in me cries with pure elation. My stomach is so full, I can barely digest this delicious attention being fed to me.
         “We’re not getting a divorce. We can fix this,” I say in my best soothing therapist voice as I smooth a stray piece of hair on your hair. I rub the shoulders and say, “Now, just take a deep breath, in and out. Fred, you can go home.”
         That night, we lie in the same bed. Your body on one side, and mine on the polar opposite.  I think that an investment should be made in double twin sized beds. At least then I wouldn’t wake up in your arms feeling instinctual urges to feed you kisses and strong coffee.
         The next morning I’m on the floor. I fell off the bed and pulled the bed’s dressings with me. I wrap the blanket around my body and trudge down the steps. You’re at the table, wearing your bathrobe I bought for you. You’re either mocking me or being sentimental. Based on our recent events, I’m persuaded by cynicism. I look to the table and see a lavish buffet of pancake towers and bacon bridges. You’re mocking me.
         “You’re the most amazing wife,” I say sardonically and sit in the chair.
         “You should be doing this,” you say.
         At least we’re talking again.
I’m at work again. Today, Oliver’s wearing a band t-shirt and slacks.
         “Hey, Mr. Fancy Pants,” I say. “How’s Gwen?”
         He picks up a pen and starts to gnaw on the cap. “My ex wife?”
         I drop my jaw.
         I’m back in eighth grade. It’s a brick prison that I’ve chipped my way out of. I’m on the final level. My speech explores my growth as a person, and I’m anything but confident after hearing ‘ole Jimmy What’s His face going on about his new neighbor. The crowd was eating out of his hand. I’m at the podium, all eyes on me. My throat snaps closed. A wise person once said that it takes effort to look effortless. I’m being judged, and my words come out in tongues. What are vowels?
         Dear Guardian Angel Elena, please help.
         Bile rises in my throat and I stand in silence at the mic. Soon, sounds of retching ring through the auditorium. What can I say when I’m wiping off vomit from my new sweater? What is there to say?
         I’m speechless.
         “You two divorced?” I frantically question as I draw erratic circles in the notebook.
         “She’s finally gone, Mary. We can be together!”
         I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Fireworks and swirls explode behind them as subtle warnings.
         “Oliver, you are my patient. What we had together was wrong. I have a husband that I love more than anything.”
         Am I reading from a script?
         “So, if it wasn’t for your husband, we could be together?” he asks, sliding to the edge of his seat. His penny loafers tap at the ground excitedly.
         “Sure, “ I say. “Your time is up.”
         I should’ve taken the hint from the fireworks.
         When he leaves, the same combination of apples and drugstore spray assault my nostrils.
I step on the subway, and Ms. Christmas sits with her head in her hands.
         “What’s wrong?” I ask and wrap my arm around her bony shoulders.
         Through quiet gasps of air, she chokes, “I had to bury my cat.”
         I’m seven years old again and I still believe that our dog Patches is just sleeping. I’m asking my mother why he’s in a box and why dad took out his good shovel.
         “Patches is in a better place now, Honey. He’s with God.”
         “But where’s God?” I ask.
         “In Heaven.”
         “Is Heaven fun?” I inquire with wide eyes, my mind filled with the visions of dancing dogs and chocolate volcanoes.
         “We all hope,” she answers.
         “Oh no,” I murmur and hold the mighty Noel.
         She chokes once more and peers up at me with glassy eyes. “Thank you for being my friend.”
         The train comes to a stop and I release her. “No problem, Senorita Navidad,” I say with a smirk and step off.
         I walk down the street, briefcase in hand. It sways against my thigh as I ponder and try to shake the feeling of an impending doom. I find my fingers curling and my mind craving a cigarette I haven’t smoked in years.
         Am I going crazy yet?
         I reach my house and the overwhelming calm and stillness in the atmosphere finally soothe me, a massage to my bad day;  O.W.O. in the Chinese spa. I grasp onto the doorknob.
         “When I get there,” I think, “I’m going to apologize to you even though I wasn’t wrong.”
         I chuckle to myself and open the door. The smell of something foul, something rotting fills the house. The stench fills my nostrils to the point of being unbearable. My eyes water, and suddenly, the uneasiness has returned.
         I become a blood hound, my nose sniffing out a map. I move closer to the steps. Something’s upstairs.  Not a millisecond after my foot hits the first step, I feel a breeze.  It stops me in my tracks.
Freeze.
         The window is broken.
         Foul play.
         I call your name, screaming so loud my voice box is overheating. I’m only answered with silence. It strangles me with tightly gripped hands.
         I run up the steps, and with every movement, the smell gets stronger. I cry your name again when I step in front of our bedroom, the rotting smell the strongest. The door’s locked from the inside.
         I pound on the door, my hands burning. I think to your hobby shop. You have a tool box there with everything you once needed to make bird houses to sell at your mother’s church craft sales. I run to grab a hammer to break down the door.
         I slam it onto the wood several times with closed eyes, mind shut off, adrenal  gland working overtime.
         The stench is unbearable now, and I open my eyes. They’re met by a lifeless body..yours.. You’re tied to the bed, my clothes as ties. Your dead, lifeless eyes bulging out with blood down your face, eyelids cut off.  My stomach is churning, but I can’t make any sense of it. My brain is struggling, but it only sees pictures.
Am I dreaming?
         Through all the guts and gore, I see that your heart is literally ripped out, a trophy for your killer. All the times you said I grabbed your heart and yanked it…It’s a lot less lighthearted once it is a reality.
         But what really sets me over the edge in this scene is the stack of comic books that had been pushed to the floor, one open next to you. You were at the part where The Fantastic Four ask Spiderman to join forces with them after the murder of the Human Torch.
         My brain still twists and turns as I step into the door. I still hear breathing, an eerie illusion concocted in my mind. I can’t piece together why this happened, especially when you probably looked so peaceful there, lying on the bed with a thumb turning the page. Killing you would be like killing a child; vulnerable and helpless, just like you look when engrossed in a good book.
         I reach to the phone and dial 911, and that moment, I hear a voice.
         “I love you, Mary,” Oliver says and a gunshot screams throughout the house.
         Two men now lay dead, the killer and the victim.
         I lie next to you even though the sheet is covered in blood, and you are a deformed ragdoll. I wait for the police and ambulances. I think back to Ms. Christmas as I quiver next to your bloody corpse and wonder why I didn’t bury my cat before it was too late. A simple word could’ve saved you, but I just wasn’t willing to speak it. I live a life with the inability to say no. Dear Guardian Angel Elena, why wasn’t I taken instead?
         I hear the symphony of sirens ringing outside and reality screams in my ear.
“Our superhero won’t be coming back next issue. “