Phantom

June 7, 1944

I watch the moment the clock’s hands turn from 8:59 to 9:00.

I’ve been sitting in our bed, staring at the timepiece hanging on the wall opposite me for the past hour. Sera is already in bed, and John was due to arrive home from work four hours ago.

These days, it’s the new normal.

Before, a hot meal would await him at the table, which he’d eat eagerly while listening to Sera tell us about her day at school or the deli. After dinner, we’d gather around the radio and dance to tunes. John taught Sera the jitterbug, and I would sing along, the three of us laughing until our cheeks ached.

Some nights, we’d bring blankets to the glass room. There, we would stare up at the sky and search for all the constellations.

Now, it’s just Sera and me, occupying ourselves. I still dance and sing with her, but there’s a noticeable absence that curves Sera’s shoulders inward. She doesn’t laugh as loud or smile as wide. And oftentimes, I catch her staring at the front door, wondering when her daddy is coming home.

I’ve tried my best to shield her from his drinking, but there have been many occasions where I failed, and she would smell the cheap whiskey on his breath and watch him make a fool of himself as he stumbled and tripped around the house.

I hate that she’s witnessing our marriage fall apart. More so, I hate that her relationship with her father is also beginning to crumble.

I’ve long since written in my journal for the night, staining my rage in ink. So, I grab a Virginia Woolf novel, To the Lighthouse, from my nightstand, hoping to preoccupy my mind while I wait.

Twenty more minutes tick by before I hear the distinct slam of the front door. Instantly, my spine snaps straight, and I toss the book back onto my nightstand. I hadn’t absorbed a single word of it.

My heart is thumping, the rage that’s been simmering deep in my chest now coming to a boil.

A few moments later, John stumbles through the door, tripping over absolutely nothing, causing him to glare at the floor like it personally set out to make a fool of him. When he sets his sights on me, a sloppy smile takes over his face.

“What are you doing up so late?” he asks. He flicks a gaze at the clock, then narrows his eyes, as if that’s going to make everything stop spinning.

“Don’t you have to be up in a few hours to get Sera ready for school? That’s very irresponsible of you, Gigi,” he blathers on.

“It’s only nine, John. And if you weren’t so drunk, you’d remember her last day of school was yesterday. She ended the year at the top of her class, remember?”

“Oh.”

Oh? The infuriating man forgot about his daughter’s accomplishment, and all he has to say is oh.

“You were supposed to take her out for ice cream today to celebrate,” I remind him stonily. “She cried because she thought you were hurt.”

He waves a dismissive hand in the air. “I’ll tell her I’m sorry and take her out tomorrow instead. We got all summer.”

My throat constricts with fury, and it takes three deep breaths before I cull my rage enough to speak at a reasonable volume.

I clear my throat. “Okay, then. Have you sent the check in for our mortgage and utilities today?”

He casts me an annoyed glare. “Yes, Gigi. I said I would, and so that’s what I did. Why are you always nagging me?”

I bite my tongue before something malicious comes out of my mouth. He’s clearly sauced, and I don’t want to start a fight with him in this state.

“I’m just making sure you remembered since you’ve been so stressed,” I respond woodenly.

“Well, now I’m even more stressed! I got paid today, and my entire damn check went to bills. Barely enough left for a pack of beer.” He mutters the last sentence, and I’m so damn annoyed by it that it’s impossible to curb my reaction.

I roll my eyes, and within a second, he’s storming over to me and getting in my face before I can utter a word. Like a flip of a switch, he went from normal to a raging man.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me. I am your husband, and you will show me respect,” he hisses, spittle wetting my face.

I see red, and my hands tremble from the fury working its way through my system.

John has never talked to me like that.

It takes effort to remain still rather than lashing out. My palm itches to connect with his face. Until he began drinking, I’d never lain hands on him. Although I never had a reason to before.

“You’re drunk, Johnathan. Where have you been?” I ask flatly, forcing calmness in my tone. My nails dig into the flesh of my palms, an attempt to abate the shaking.

He straightens, staring down at me. “You know where I’ve been,” he mutters, turning away from me. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me. I go to work and bust my ass all day while you sit at home and write in that—that stupid journal! What do you even do to deserve to live in this big house, Gigi? Wasn’t it enough that we decorated it like some godforsaken horror film? You get to just live in luxury, and when I finally find something to blow off some steam, I’m not allowed!”

By the time he finishes his tirade, his chest is heaving, and I’m struck speechless. Slowly, I get out of the bed, seething at him.

“You told me you didn’t want me to get a job,” I bite out. “I offered to join the workforce now that so many are fighting in this war, and you refused to let me! You said I needed to be home with Sera, and you were happy to take care of our needs.”

“Do you know how embarrassing it’d be for me to send my wife off to work? The men at the firm would laugh at me!”

“Then what do you want from me?” I almost shout, losing the precarious hold I had on my temper but mindful of our daughter enough to quiet my volume.

He’s silent for a beat, then he’s getting in my face again. This time, I make no promises to myself not to slap him stupid.

“I want you to do your wifely duties,” he spits.

Before I can ask what exactly he means by that, he’s fisting my hair tightly at the back of my head and forcing my face into the bed. I struggle against him, my nails clawing at his hand as panic overrides any rational thinking.

“No, no, no, stop, John!” I whisper-shout.

Even intoxicated, he’s so much stronger than I am. I bite back a scream, conscious that Sera is sleeping down the hallway, and the last thing I want is for her to walk in on this. It would devastate me to have her see her father like this.

“John, stop!” I bark, still attempting to keep my volume down while also hoping my voice gets through to him.

It doesn’t.

He’s lifting my nightgown and pushing it up past my hips. He tears down my knickers, exposing me to him.

“John,” I snap louder, but again, he doesn’t listen.

“Please, just stop,” I whisper, the words coming out as a helpless squeak.

Still he doesn’t listen.

I force myself to still completely, my muscles locking tight. There’s no use in fighting, and I refuse to wake Sera up. The best thing to do is just let it happen. The sooner I let him finish, the sooner he gets away from me.

Tears well up in my eyes and spill over as he quickly removes his belt and unfastens his trousers. He breathes heavily as I feel him push inside me, the pain blinding for a moment.

He grunts, keeping my hair fisted in his grip as he moves. With each thrust, his groans grow louder. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that Sera stays asleep.

Did he bother to lock our door? No, he’s too far gone.

Anytime we’ve been intimate before, we were always so careful to keep our noise level below a whisper. She won’t understand what’s happening if she sees this. She can’t see this.

Inhaling deeply, I arch my back and squeeze my legs tighter, evoking a sharp moan from him. His pace quickens, and my heart thuds heavily, silently urging him on.

One more thrust and he stills, another sharp grunt leaving his lips. Once he’s finished, he pulls away, and I make quick work of scrambling off the bed to pull up my underwear and fix my nightdress.

John tucks himself away, a satisfied gleam in his glazed eyes.

“See? That’s what a husband should come home to every night. I work hard, Gigi. It’s the least you could do.”

I swallow down my retort and instead hurry out of the room. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t stop me. He got what he wanted, and I’m sure it’ll be a matter of five seconds before he passes out.

I check on Sera first, creaking the door open to see her form huddled beneath the blankets, sleeping soundly. My eyes close, the relief almost dizzying. Overcome with it, I lean against the doorframe and just watch her for a moment, a few more tears slipping down my cheek.

If this is my life, it’s one I’ll readily accept for her. If she sleeps as peacefully as she does now, it’s worth it. All of this with John . . . it’s worth it.

Inhaling deeply, I leave her to her dreams and head to the washroom. Moonlight spears through the window, offering just enough visibility to use the toilet and quickly clean myself up. When I’m finished, I stand at the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. I can’t see much of my features, but I make out enough to notice how glossy my eyes are and the tearstains tracking down my cheeks.

I turn the faucet on just enough for a small trickle of water to come out, and I splatter it on my face, wiping away any evidence that I was upset.

After patting my face dry, I straighten again, only to bite back a scream for the second time tonight.

There’s a man standing behind me, directly in front of the window, only his silhouette visible. I hadn’t noticed when I was washing my face, but the temperature in the room has dropped, chilling the air substantially.

I’m paralyzed, unable to move save for my heart thundering in my chest. Typically, I ignore them. I’ve found that the more I acknowledge them, the more they seek my attention. I’m not sure if the events tonight have me more rattled than usual, but I can’t seem to pull myself away from the mirror and calmly leave.

Instead, I can only stand frozen, silently panicking.

A few beats later, the man begins to approach, sending my heart flying up into my throat. My trembling becomes violent, yet still my feet refuse to unglue from the floor.

It comes closer and closer until I feel its ice-cold breath whispering across my nape. It’s right behind me now.

My mind screams at me to get out, my survival instincts thrashing against their unmovable prison, desperately trying to get me to just move.

A deep growl emanates from its chest, and apparently, that’s the trigger I needed to finally move. Instantly, I dart to my left toward the door and scramble out of the washroom without looking back.

Stomach filled with adrenaline and panic, I run down the hallway and burst into my bedroom, almost completely forgetting about who I left inside.

I softly shut the door behind me and plant myself against it as I coax my breathing into a normal rhythm again. It takes a few minutes, but soon, I calm myself enough for my heart to return to a steady pace. It’s not the first time a spirit has gotten that close, but it has been a little while. And of course, it tested that boundary when I was at my most vulnerable.

Men.

My disdain for them even surpasses the physical realm.

I take another deep breath and focus on my husband, my upper lip instantly curling with revulsion.

As suspected, John is passed out on the bed, snoring loudly. And of course, he’s still in his work clothes, which in itself is abhorrent.

Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to be sleeping next to filth.

My husband has proven himself to be exactly that after tonight.

June 7, 1944

I think I hate my husband.

What a terrible thing for me to write. To even think.

Yet, staring at the words now, I cannot find even a morsel of regret.

How could he do this to Sera and me? How could he build a beautiful life with me, create an even more beautiful child, and then destroy us so callously?

I’m heartbroken.

Not only for myself, but for our daughter, too. He had made a promise to take her out for ice cream after dinner to celebrate her ending the school year at the top of her class. He never showed, and Sera broke into tears, concerned that something terrible had happened to her father.

And that . . . that made me so angry. Our sweet daughter didn’t think for one second that her father had forgotten about her. The only thing that made sense in her head was that he had gotten in some sort of accident.

I knew the truth, but how could I tell her? How could I wittingly break her heart?

So I lied. I assured her that her father was okay and that he must have gotten held up late by an important client. She understands her daddy works hard, and while disappointed, I know that she will forgive him.

But I won’t.

I think I hate my husband.