Defining Paranoia

Her Husband

I’m only writing here to tell you that I’ll be away for a very long time. I won’t be coming back any time soon so don’t wait for me by the window.

She looked at me after reading the small note in her hands. It was rude of him to do this to her. He’s been away for almost five months and all he does is send a note with this kind of language. “He’s going to leave me. He found himself another girl. She’s probably younger and prettier. She probably speaks seven languages and knows more math than I’ll ever do.” I tried to assure her that no such thing was happening. He was a war correspondent in Afghanistan. He was surrounded by men and no women were allowed to be near them. She said nothing. She was standing by the window and looking out at the streets. “He didn’t say anything about not writing, right? He’ll keep on writing, won’t he?”

The next few days were long and gloomy. It was as if a dark cloud had decided to live with us ever since the note arrived in the mail that dreadful day. Although he had specifically told her not to wait by the window, she spent most of her time next to it. She only left the window to cook and go about the house chores. Sometimes, she neglected her chores and I had to take charge. Sometimes, she even forgot to cook. “Oh! I’m sorry!” She would say, “Just order a pizza.” She hated the pizzas that she didn’t make herself. That was the first sign that indicated that she will never be the same again.

I was watching the news one day when I saw that the war correspondent in Afghanistan had changed. I called out to her and she quickly came to my side. He had disappeared, the reporter said, and they did not know where he was. “That doesn’t mean he’s dead.” She told me afterwards as she stared out the window. “Maybe he got lost while heading back to his quarters. That happens.” I was about to say that maybe the Taliban had caught him but I decided to keep that thought to myself.

A couple of weeks had passed before he decided to send us a letter. It wasn’t a note, like the last letter he wrote us. It was a full two-page letter. There was no return address or stamp. I wondered how it reached us. He explained in those two pages that he was alive and doing just fine. In no point did he mention his whereabouts or his status of living. He didn’t mention he found himself another woman but she inferred from his letter that he did. “Look at his handwriting.” She told me, “They’re very neat. Look at the papers. They’re new and clean. A woman must be taking care of him.” I tried to reason with her that maybe he’s staying with a family and the man’s wife was taking care of him. She dismissed the idea as quick as I had come up with it. “He forgot to mention that he loved me.” She said, “He found himself another woman.”

The next morning I was watching the news. There was a report about a couple of reporters who were kidnapped by the Qaeda. His name wasn’t one of them. He was still unheard of. “Maybe you should tell them you got a letter from him.” I told her later on while she was cooking. “No,” She stated simply, “It’s there job to find him. I’m not helping out.”

I kept on watching the news the next few days and buying the newspaper. There was nothing about him. It wasn’t until a whole year had passed since we’d seen him that I saw the headline on all of the papers. He was part of the terrorist group. He was one of them now. “But he’s still alive, right?” She said when I told her the news. She didn’t care that he was killing others. She was just happy he didn’t find another woman.

She stopped sitting by the window. Every day, she would wake up early, shower, get dressed, get her hair and makeup done and sit in the living room waiting for him to come in so she could run into his arms, kiss him on the lips and tell him how much she missed him. And every night, she would go back to her room and, still in her dress and makeup, lie on the bed and fall asleep. At first, I used to go into her room at night, change her clothes and wipe off the makeup. After the first week, it became a burden. Two weeks later, I stopped. Finally, after a month had passed, she stopped as well.

One day, when we least expected it, the doorbell rang. She was in the kitchen baking a cake. If the door bell had rung a year ago, she would have dropped whatever that was in her hands and run to the door. That day, she didn’t even bother to ask me to go see who was at the door. I put down my book and went to open the door. I hesitated at first and many thoughts crossed my mind. What if it was him? Would he still look the same? Will he know who I was? I opened the door. Upon laying my eyes at what was in front of me, I quickly slammed the door shut and called out to her. She came wiping her hands in a towel, her hair a mess and her clothes filled with chocolate spots. “What is it?” She asked. When I opened the door to show her the comer, the towel fell from her hands. A little while later, she was on the floor unconscious.

The man at the door wasn’t him. It was a police man with his suitcase. They had captured him. He was to be executed that noon.

“At least he wasn’t cheating on me.” She said after the funeral, “He was faithful at all times. He even mentions that in his will.” His will was as short as the note we had received from him five months after he had left. It was written on a crumbled piece of paper. There was no date and his name wasn’t signed at the end. She recognized his hand writing and that was how we knew it was his. It went something like this …

By the time you receive this, I will have been beheaded. There might or might not be a funeral but I would like to think that you will have honored my death. Before I begin, I want to tell you that I was faithful to you from day one of my departure. And in conclusion, all my belongings have perished since I joined the group. You should have asked for a divorce.

I never understood that man and I never will understand what she loved about him. “He married me,” She told me forty days after his death, “He gets points for that.”

posted by 5ada @ 10:30 PM