She Dies Every Time We Fight

I realize how unhinged this sounds. But honestly, it's stopped being scary and started being mostly just infuriating.

The first time it happened, I was wrecked. We'd been bickering about some dumb TV show — I'll own it, I let myself get a little worked up. But I'm only human, you know?

She didn't say a single word. She just got off the couch and headed for our bedroom, totally calm.

I figured she needed a few minutes to cool off. Honestly, we both did.

Five minutes later she was in the living room again, standing right behind me.

“Baby,” she murmured, so softly I almost believed she was about to make peace.

I turned around expecting an apology, and every bit of hope drained out of me — she was holding my gun.

I went completely still. Every instinct told me to get my hands in the air. I was certain she was going to turn it on me — all because of a silly fight about a show.

I dropped my voice to a whisper, about to beg her to set it down.

But before I could get the words out, she pressed the 9mm against her own temple and pulled the trigger.

The wall behind her bloomed red. Blood hit my face — some of it landed in my mouth. Her whole body went slack, and she collapsed to the floor with a heavy, hollow thud.

I never even heard the shot. Everything went dead quiet, but I could feel my hands shaking and my heart hammering, tears already filling my eyes.

I'd never felt horror and grief slam into me at the same moment like that. It was like I was the one who had just died.

I vaulted the couch and dropped to my knees beside her, cradling her head in my hands. My tears fell onto her face. Her hair was tangled in thick, dark blood, and her eyes were glassy and empty — a flat, lifeless red.

All I could do was sob and beg her forgiveness, gripping her so hard my fingers ached, my forearms soaked and sticky with her blood.

I'd just gathered enough of my mind to realize I had to call the police — when her eyes shifted toward me.

I scrambled backward as a tender little smile spread across her mouth.

“That's all I wanted to hear, baby,” she said.

Then she stood up, squeezed the blood out of her hair like it was water, scrubbed her face clean with the hem of her shirt, and sat back down on the couch. She rewound the show. Like the last five minutes hadn't happened.

I was a wreck, obviously — shaking, shouting, demanding to know what the hell that was. She only gave me one sentence back, and it landed like a threat.

“Don't argue with me again.”

I sat down next to her carefully, like she might detonate. There wasn't a mark on her. No wound anywhere.

I didn't sleep properly for weeks after that. I saw a therapist who, after a few sessions, was clearly starting to think I was delusional. In the end, I just filed the whole thing away — told myself it was a nightmare that had felt too real.

For a long time after, I refused to argue with her about anything — even when she was obviously, painfully wrong.

But almost a full year later, she did it again. Not the gun this time. She took a kitchen knife to her own throat.

We weren't even fighting. We were in the grocery store, disagreeing about which cereal to get.

She didn't speak to me the entire drive home. Then, while I was in the kitchen unpacking the groceries, she waited for exactly the right second and drew the blade straight across her neck.

Same performance. I'm gutted all over again, breaking down, holding her and pleading for her to open her eyes — while she just lies there, ignoring me until I apologize.

You have no idea what I've spent on cleaning products since then. And this time was worse, because I was starting to go numb to it.

We fought constantly in the weeks after that. And every single time, she made me watch her die horribly.

It wears you down. Have you ever tried getting blood out of carpet? And that doesn't touch the time she chugged gasoline and swallowed a burning match. The stink hung around the house for weeks.

I'm writing this because last night we had the worst fight yet — about the whole damn ritual.

I told her, to her face, that I wished she'd just stay dead instead of putting me through this.

And I think she actually listened this time.

Because she's still in the bedroom. Her head is sitting on the dresser. Her arms are inside the closet. Her chest and legs lie stretched out on the floor.

I have no idea how she even pulled that off. And right now, I don't care.

I'm still not apologizing.