Straightjacket

The man awoke at five, as he always did, and rolled out of bed as to not wake his wife. Due to an argument they had not spoken in three days. He suspected that she was cheating on him, but he had no proof to justify his claims. When he asked, she would just say “ I would never.” He stood up and walked into the bathroom. He took a shower and put on his favorite black suit. He started walking out of his room, but stopped and looked at his wife. The instinct he had was to slap her; but for what?

He slowly walked downstairs, blinking hard to get rid of the fuzziness. He walked out to his car, a bright yellow Mercedes with a small scratch on one side, and drove to work. Traffic was heavy as usual. Arriving at the law firm he took the elevator to the 68th floor where his office was located. He sat down in his corner office, trying to shake off the cold, and with an inward sigh accepted the fact it was time for another long day.

After his hectic morning, he decided to run home and surprise his wife by taking her out to lunch, which he hadn’t done in a long while. He would take her to that little Italian place on Maple street that she liked. His loving gesture had an ulterior motive, however. He wanted to catch his wife in the arms of another man. Putting on his coat, he went out to his car and quickly drove home. He was almost excited. He wanted to personify this man that was sleeping with his wife. But what if there was no man? Nothing to personify. What then?

As he pulled up, he noticed another car in the driveway. Thinking he had caught her in the act, he jumped from his car and stormed inside yelling, “That’s what I thought. I knew it,” as he ran into the living room. The sight he saw caught him by surprise. His wife and ... her female friend sitting, drinking tea and reading magazines. He smiled outwardly but inside he was screaming bloody murder. “I forgot my wallet this morning,” he said, embarrassed, and with that he walked out.

As he was driving back to work, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had everything he could have ever wanted; a great house, a fantastic job, a nice car and a wife that loved him (even though his insecurities wouldn’t allow him to believe it). But with all this, he still wasn’t content. He pulled off the highway and pulled into a empty parking lot. He lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He watched as the smoke slowly slid out the window. The sun was slowly sliding behind a cloud and it looked like it might snow. When he was younger he would have loved the snow, but now all he could think was how bad traffic would be. At least the weather would put off seeing her until later. He smiled at his indifference.

He got back to work and sat down in his cold , lonely office. Because of his years of inhumanity at his job, he had no friends, just coworkers. He regretted it now; the yelling, the coldness and the rigidity. With no one to talk to, he just leaned out his opened window. He contemplated jumping but, laughing at his cowardice lit a cigarette and slowly tried to smoke his sadness away.

At around nine, he left his office and got into his car. The snow had stared falling and it was getting hard to see. He drove home slowly, dreading the consequences of his outburst earlier that day. Eventually though, he arrived at his destination. He turned his car off, and slowly got out. He walked up to his door, nearly slipping on the icy surface. He was sweating bullets. Swallowing hard he opened the door.

Walking in, he bee-lined for his study and shut the door. He poured a glass of scotch and lit up a cigarette. She didn’t come in. He leaned foward on his desk and put his head in his arms. His sleeves were wet from the snowfall. He thought back on how great his wedding day had been, how happy he had been. She had looked so beautiful walking down the isle that day so long ago. He looked up and took a sip out of the glass. His face cringed at the taste. He put out his cigarette and downed the last bit of scotch. Fearing for his life, he stood up, took off his jacket, and marched off to the death house.

He stopped at the foot of the bed and breathed a sigh of relief. She was asleep. He took off his suit and walked into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. The lighting didn’t do him justice. His forehead was wrinkled from years of frowning. He pushed his long hair out of his face and decided to go to bed. He delicately climbed into bed. He turned to look at his wife. Gone were the days of thinking “She’s mine. I’m the luckiest man in the world.” Those feeling were replaced with thoughts of resentment, jealousy, and to a certain extent, hatred; not of her, but of her actions towards him. He was thirty-five and he had a comatose marriage. He hated himself. Why couldn’t he enjoy his marriage? Why did he feel so jealous? Why couldn’t he trust her? She would never do anything to hurt him, but he just couldn’t do it. His own insecurities were ruining his marriage.

He looked at her and forced a smile. He couldn’t do anything right now. He rolled over and closed his eyes. The end of his personal hell for another day.