FAMILY FOREVER

 Family Forever was originally published in The Parliament Literary Journal. View the original version here.

            I’m a creature of habit, a slave to routine. My day--with the exception of the erratic nature of traffic--has been whittled down to a science.

At exactly seven-fifteen, the tumultuous blare of two radio stations fight for power inside my alarm clock. The raucous static sends my rigor-mortis body running across the room to end the audible torture. It’s the only thing strong enough to get me out of bed.

Next comes the slippers, warm and fuzzy like rabbits inside-out. Left first, then right. My feet are feathers as I make my way into the hall, a bloodshot apparition looking for haunts.

Kids, I call softly, It’s time to get up for school.

I hover for a brief moment outside their door, catching a glimpse of their heads cocooned under heaps of blankets. The room is dim, shrouded in hues of blue shadow, the sun unable to penetrate the thick curtains hanging from the windows. A dying yellow glow, it makes the children look like ashen tombstones.

Kids, I call again, You’re going to be late.

Another failure-- I can’t seem to rouse them. Their lethargy is so petulant that it’s become a part of my own morning routine.

Oh well, I think to myself.

Efforts moot, I glide down the stairs and make my way to the kitchen. As I pop into the fridge to grab the contents for my breakfast, I feel the December-wind glare of my wife boring a hole into the back of my head. I silently grab the cream cheese and pretend not to notice, but it becomes too heavy to ignore.

I’m sorry I couldn’t get the kids up again, I confess. You know I would try again after breakfast but it would just be no use.

 Still, she says nothing. I sweep away my lackluster apology along with the crumbs from yesterday’s breakfast. After meticulously slicing my bagel, I insert both halves into the slots with the rounded sides facing each other. The lever presses into place, clicking as it goes, an orgasmicly satisfying sound. As I wait for my bagel to toast, the kitchen clock wails above my head like a pulsating heart on the verge of an attack.

I am now forced to bask in an uncomfortable silence. It’s tangible, suffocating, thick like molasses.

All the while Delilah remains perched on the stool where I left her after our argument last night, poised in the same stance and refusing to utter a word. I sneak a glimpse of her dried-lip snarl and melon-seed eyes, angry and hard enough to strike me dead. With a will stronger than Antarctic fjords, she upholds her petty silent treatment lest she forgets how to speak entirely. I squirm, put off by the tension.

Come on, honey. Please. You know I love you, don’t you?

Still, she says nothing.

My bagel pops up in that moment, a donut comet striking the roof, loud and abrupt and magma-hot. Hands shaking trying not to burn myself, I smear both halves with blood-orange jam while my wife watches with contempt, mute and statuesque, silently judging me for my carbs. I cast my shameful gaze to the floor before filling the rest of my stomach with coffee and heading to work.

I’ll see you later, love. Make sure the kids get to class on time, okay?

I hesitate in the doorway for her, providing one last opportunity to make amends. The ghost of the morning air wafts into the foyer, swirling her medusa curls, toying with her face to coax her into a goodbye.

Okay? I repeat myself.

Still, stiffened on the countertop stoll, scowl unaffected by the tickle of the breeze, Delilah says nothing. I close the door and leave.

________

After navigating through the cataclysmic city, I park my van in the nearest open spot and wait until 7:53 to start walking to my office. Once inside, I flip on the charm to forget about Delilah and say hello to all my co-workers, most of them too incomptetent to maintain the positions they hold. Of course, I don’t let them know this. Instead I offer a bouquet of friendly waves, pretending to care about Jonathan’s dog and Amelia’s baby. Small talk is the reason I’m thankful for my cubicle.

What’s up? Asks Tom as I settle into my desk. How’s Carrie? Still going through the honeymoon phase?

 No, I say morosely, Carrie is my ex wife. I’m married to Delilah now.

Tom looks aghast.

I know what you’re thinking--it was love at first sight, if you could believe it. I caught her leaving the grocery store one day and I just couldn’t look away. We hit it off splendidly.

 Well…congratulations I guess. You’re quite the casanova, aren’t you? Tom sputters out. He looks off-put by my capriciousness. Not that it’s any of my business, but I heard you had another wife before Carrie, too. And don’t you have kids? Make sure you’re not confusing them with all the women you’re bringing home. That could be bad news.

Yes, I’m aware. I snap at him. And I’m handling it very well.

Tom is now rapt with intrigue, a schoolgirl socialite just itching for some gossip. He leans in close to make sure no one can hear me air my dirty laundry.

If you don’t mind me asking, how long was your last marriage anyways? And how do you find women so quickly?

I don’t answer now-- Tom’s questions have become too intrusive. Instead, I began to arrange my already-clean workspace, hoping he would pick up on my disinterest and go pester someone else. But instead Tom cocks his head to the side, looks at me quizzically, and says:

Hey Corey, why do you smell like shit?

Something inside me clicks.

My heart sinks into my stomach, falling like an inept acrobat, finally plunging into my feet. Dragonfire erupts in my heels and licks it way into my face, turning my cheeks redder than applesauce. Meanwhile Tom’s just standing there with chrysanthemum eyes, trying to gauge why such a simple question was leaving me silent. I cough and try to play it off like I choked on my spit.

The truth was that the fickleness of the human body soils every single relationship. The elements storm in like feasting piranhas, hungry for flesh and rust, taking my happiness with them.. Even with the thermostat low I cannot stop the decaying process.

I let the grim reality melt bitterly on my tongue, pungent like metal. Tom is now gushing about his frisky one-night-stand, the awkwardness of the past few minutes completely erased from his memory. I cough again to choke on tears. I can’t even remember the time.

________

I throw my briefcase to the floor and stumble inside, arriving at home just before sunset. There she sits, still idle, a black silhouette against the fading grin of the sun. Before we depart, I allow myself one last glance  at my beautiful wife.

 Her flesh has decomposed rather quickly over the past three weeks, hanging limply off her bones like laundry on a clothesline, patterned with blisters weak to the touch. Her eyes, once a green deeper than the heart of a forest, have shriveled up into black raisins. Cruel, selfish Time has taken every blossom of her youth and baked it under its greedy gaze, turning Delilah into a pallid lump of candle drippings

 My stomach lurches. I can’t bear to look anymore.

On the brink of tears, I take Delilah in my arms and nestle my head against her shoulder, softly cooing I’m sorry until my throat runs dry. Not soon after, my nose begins to revolt from the scent of rotting eggs, sending thunderstorms sprouting from my eyes.

 I suppose Tom was right-- I do smell like shit.

Delilah and the kids are taken down to the basement. I pile them next to Carrie and Anabelle, who’s now barely hanging onto her nails and teeth. Severing my sorrow, unable to see them like this--three dolls abandoned cold on the patchwork daycare floor-- I  slam the cellar shut and hike back up to the kitchen, abysmally reminding myself that my pain is only temporary.

Tomorrow will be better, I say with weak assurance. Tomorrow I will have another family, and a wife who loves me just as well. Tomorrow will be better, I repeat again.

Tomorrow I will be happy.