She’s at the post office. I know this because she goes every nine days. Every nine days, she goes to the post office for a letter. And every nine days, the ninth day ends in the same way. Me, bruised and bloody. Her, crying. And a younger sibling trying desperately not to give her the treatment she deserves. And it’s all because of a letter. A letter that she wanted.
Have you ever wanted something so bad that you forget where it came from? And then you finally get what you wanted, and you’re excited, but then reality hits. And you remember. You remember where the thing you wanted most in the world came from, and that ruins the joy of finally getting what you wanted because it came from somewhere not exactly terrible, but some place you wouldn’t wish onto anybody else.
Blissful waiting is how she lives for eight days, eight normal and carefree days before the ninth day. Then on the ninth day, when she goes and gets that letter and is reminded that the letter came from prison, her ninth day is ruined, and she realizes the reality of her life and how she wishes literally anybody else was in there besides her other half.
Her other half, the man she would do anything for. She’d rather herself be in there than her husband. She selfishly wishes it was just her and her husband out here in the real world and that I was the one locked up instead. She has said this to me so many times that I’ve started to believe it even though I had nothing to do with him going to prison; it’s still my fault. I should be the one in prison, and she punishes me for that every ninth day.