A version of this story was originally published in Marrow Magazine.

The most important thing—and it was important  that he knew this after she was gone—was that it had nothing to do with love. The first time had nothing to do with love. Neither did the second. Not all extreme feelings are love or hate. There are others. There are some feelings that draw a person back again and again against her wishes. Those should be kept secret, she thought.

She lay in bed for over an hour after her husband left for work. The ceiling fan didn’t move, but she stared at it anyway until her eyes dried. The voices in her head taunted her. They made cruel demands. They weren’t taking no for an answer. She would have to try again today while he was at work, just as she had tried before. It was the only way to make the voices stop. Her hands swam on the sheets before resting on her forehead. It was damp. 

Finally, she lifted herself from the bed and shuffled along the hardwood out of the bedroom. She had neglected her hygiene for weeks, but today she took extra care to follow each step in her ideal routine. She showered and dried herself. Brushed her teeth, even flossed. She returned to the bedroom, dropped her stained pajamas in the hamper, and selected clean clothes from her closet. She lingered as she dressed—pausing at the sight of bodily details she hadn’t noticed before. The way the skin tightened around a knuckle. Alternating hues along her collarbone. She thought of all the ways she’d be identified. All the ways she’d be prodded. The details he had surely noticed and would surely miss. 

The closet was shared. Just as the room was shared, and the life was shared. The floor of the closet held boxes of all shapes and sizes stacked on top of one another. Shoes, Christmas ornaments, legal documents. Marriage certificate? Boxes of cards and Polaroids. She breathed heavily as she shifted boxes around to find the brown one with the gold label. She had placed it in the back so he wouldn’t find it. It was her safe. She pulled out the box and opened it. There was a white nylon cord inside. Made for outdoor use. Still clean.

She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the closet and thought about crying. The voices were back. They had returned weeks ago. She couldn’t put him through it again. The two of them had barely made it through the last time, and they wouldn’t recover this time. Today would be a mercy. Yes? Not kindness. It was not about kindness just as it was not about love or even happiness. No one had made her happier than him. No one else could have, but she couldn’t ask him to continue fighting. His life was spoiled, and she had spoiled it. She remembered when she had first told him the truth. Showed him the drawer of prescription bottles. “I don’t care about that,” he told her. “I want all of you.” Well, he had gotten it. 

He had solved enough problems these past eight years of marriage and cleaned up enough messes. Now her line of credit was all used up, and she felt it. Why did he stay? He knew what she was, and he still stayed. She thought of the extended hospital stays. The appointments. The ER visits. All the times this illness had reared its ugly head in their marriage. She tried to exorcise the feeling that it had all been bad. Of course, it hadn’t. But had enough been?

She thought of the hospital, her second home. There was a small collection of those socks with grips stuffed in her dresser next to the curated collection of pills. She was a veteran of the blank walls and stone-faced nurses handing out meds.

She stood up and tied one end of the cord to the closet bar and the other end around her neck. She leaned forward to feel against her throat a touch of what was to come. She was crying. How long had she been crying? Then good memories flooded her mind. That made it worse. It was love. Not a lack of it but an abundance. She loved him like no one else could ever understand, and she knew he loved her too because she saw his pain. There would be more pain to come after today, but it would pass. She hoped to God and everything that it would pass and that he would know that this had nothing to do with love. This was not diminished love or indifference to it. Without her, he’d be better. It was that simple.

She let her legs go limp. First, she felt nothing. Then she felt everything. She started choking, but she remained still. Her eyes filled with fluid, and a new hue emerged on her cheeks. Then she heard it. The front door opened. His footsteps.

It took a second to register that he was back. She quickly planted her feet and stood back up—working to remove the cord. “I’m home,” he called. “I thought we could have lunch together.” She stifled a violent cough with her hand and drew labored breaths. 

She placed the cord back in the box and the box back in the closet. Then she went into the bathroom to compose herself for him. The mark on her neck began to slowly fade. She decided to try again tomorrow—her third attempt. There would be pain. Then, eventually, he would be better. And he would know that it had nothing to do with love.