I married a Karen but I'm the one that doesn't want to wear a mask

It was all so wonderful in the beginning. I?d just gotten a new job as a builder for a private contractor. This was back in the days when slasher flicks were still big in theaters and hairspray was used by all.
Me and the rest of the crew went over to the boss?s house to load some supplies that were dropped off. Normally, these would?ve been delivered to the job site, but the schedule was wonky. This was how I met her.
Just as we were loading up the last few sheets of drywall onto the trailer hitched to the work truck, she poked her head out onto the back patio where the shadow of the overhead awning blotted out the sun and hid her in shadow; she was wearing sunglasses too big for her face and a sunhat that flopped with each step she took. She was wearing a silky dark robe. The moment the robe hit the concrete lining the pool, I was in love. Her two-piece swimsuit could hardly contain what was underneath.
She lowered herself into the pool slowly; her chest fought against the water like a set of floatation devices. I swear, I don?t think I could?ve drowned her if I?d wanted to.
She was my boss?s daughter.
He caught me looking and approached, placing a hand on my shoulder. ?Let?s get back to work, eh?? His thick sausage fingers dug into my collar bone just enough to let me know.
We were married later that summer and things were fine. She was the sort of girl that took care of her skin. I remember that much.
Kids weren?t in the cards for us, it seemed. She assured me it was alright.
After her dad got the big C, I took over the business and things seemed alright in the beginning, but stress takes its toll and the longer I worked, the rounder her bottom became. The once bulbous apple there was replaced by a pair of mushy hams. Even without children, she?d been cursed with mom butt. Her hair. God, that lovely hair I once ran my fingers through was replaced by a weird angular bob cut. All the trips to the tanning bed made it so that her skin felt like crusted leather. The veins on her chest were a more vibrant blue than ever before and she was quickly developing what I?ll call here the ?wattle problem? beneath her chin.
At restaurants, she would send her steak back if it was too overdone or too underdone. I used to think no steak on this green earth existed that would quell her wrath. These days, I know different. Whenever this would happen, I would smile to the server, hoping to communicate: Please don?t spit in my food. I didn?t do anything. But of course, my anxiety was such that I?d pick at my food for the remainder of our night out, examining each pool of moisture on the meat to see if it looked too bubbly and white.
I eventually renovated the basement as a place for me to find some respite from the overbearing woman. This didn?t last long as her ever changing interests and hobbies grew. The upstairs was no longer large enough to contain them.
I stopped going down there. I didn?t want to see what the screams came from.
We slept in separate beds but sometimes I would wake up to the sound of grinding. I?d open my eyes and see her hunched over on her bed with her back facing me. The following morning I?d see my electric sander sitting on the floor near her bed. She would have two perfect circles beneath her eyes where she?d stripped her flesh to expose the red blood, the white bone, the infected tissue. This was a more permanent substitute to rouge. I suppose she thought it went well with the dull powder blue eye makeup she used. I don?t know.
I started taking long drives after work as a means to keep myself out of the house. I?d find myself parking the car in some new secluded place I?d found and step out to scream at the infinite night sky. Then I would return home and she would be waiting on me, question after question locked and loaded. I would muffle something about paperwork and go to my bed. But the screams from the basement leaked into my nightmares. It was all too much. I could hardly look at my wife. She was a monster. A totally different person than the one I?d met all those years ago. She began wearing human skin suits and I no longer had to wonder of the origins of those screams. With some new face, she greeted me every morning. She stocked the fridge with jars of a thick red substance.
I worked in a slaughterhouse once when I was in high school. I know that smell. It?s the smell that creeps up through the cracks in the floor. It?s the smell coming off her breath. I can?t stand it. It makes me sick. I couldn?t go on living like that.
After a long day at work followed by a longer drive home, I found my way to our doorstep, not wanting to go in. I knew what I was going to do; it wouldn?t be easy but I?m sure a divorce would come as a welcome surprise. We'd both be better off for it. I felt like falling to pieces right there on the welcome mat. I wanted to run away. How long would it be before she turned those insatiable hobbies on me? My hand reached out for the doorknob. I watched my hand continue to shake as I willed it to steady. My heart was pounding in my ears. Sickness welled in my chest. It burned. I was going to throw up.
Before I could do anything, there she was, whipping the door open. She was decked in a full skin suit, sewn together in the places it had torn wrong. It felt like she towered over me.
She did not speak but merely grunted and put out her cupped hands to show off the newest thing she?d made. It was a mask. It was for me. My skin crawled. I couldn?t even look at it. I tried pushing it away. She lifted the hollowed-out head skin and slammed it over my face. I peered through the eyeholes, not thinking of whatever poor ******* it had been taken from. It was a waking nightmare. The things I could have only ever dreamed of were happening.
It?s so hard to breathe. I take it off when she?s not looking. I can?t help it. The stench.
I can?t leave.
She won?t let me.
XXX


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