#james conrad

Dear Diary,

Emmylou is getting married.

Nick told me today. Not because I’m friends with Emmylou but because I’m expected to be at the wedding. Not just as a guest. Apparently, I’ve been chosen to be in the bridal party.

My husband. Nick. It’s easier to just call him by his name. The man I occupy this silent house with, he expects me to call her and thank her for the privilege.

It’s not that it isn’t exciting or that I’m ungrateful. It’s not even the first wedding I’ll attend purely on expectation. It’s just that I’m so over it all. I don’t want to be at another wedding. I don’t want to be a bridesmaid. I just want to be left alone. Life is much easier that way.

If this last year has shown me anything, it’s that trying to fit in isn’t worth the trouble. Even if it’s in your own marriage.

Dear Diary,

I called Emmylou. Her real name is just Emily, you know? Tiffany told me so and made fun of her for the change. I like both. It’s all a matter of prerogative. Who hasn’t wanted to change their name. Or even themselves.

I’m sitting here in front of the mirror wishing for the very same. I can’t help but compare myself to a faceless woman I’ll never know. To wonder if her eyes are brighter or her lips fuller. Oh, maybe she has nice hair and can sing.

I don’t know anything about her but I know she exists. I know he’s texting her. Nick. The man I’m legally bound to. Yeah, him.

He thinks I don’t know. He seems to think I’m dull. I am, in some ways. I suppose I’m not exciting. I’m not thin and perfect but I don’t think I’m that bad.

Not that bad, huh? Wow, he really won the lottery.

Anyway, whatever.

I was on the phone with Emmylou, or Emily, or the soon to be Mrs. Drysdale for all of 47 seconds. Oh yes, I checked. I barely got out my thank you. She said her assistant would send me the ‘deets’ and hung up on me.

An assistant? I didn’t think she’d need one of those. She doesn’t work. Neither do I. That’s not what’s expected of us. The wives. The delicate women. No, they just need to lock us up in a curio case and bring us out when they need to show us off.

Speaking of, I’m due to come out from behind the glass. Mr. Conrad is here to drive me to the venue. Nick will be late. Again. As he always is. For even the smallest thing. Like dinner or going to bed. The latter I hardly notice. He ‘sleeps in his office’ because he’s so busy.

I shouldn’t keep Mr. Conrad waiting. He’s already too patient with me.

Dear Diary,

Today was bad.

Dear Diary,

I’m sure you’re dying to hear about my Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. You. Pages without ears. Paper with no feelings at all. The only thing I have to talk to. Writing down all my ridiculous thoughts and for what.

Oh, how I long to be that. Flat and inanimate. To feel nothing. To stop thinking FOR ONCE!

No. But that is just another flaw. I think too much. I think so much that it all just bubbles up and spills out in a horrible foaming mess. And its stains. It burns. It cannot be scrubbed out.

Ugh.

I hate this. I can’t even write about it. I’m so sick of crying.

Dear Diary,

Okay.

I’m not ready. But I am.

My heart is ready to combust and I just need to get this out. After sitting all day at that vapid ‘tea party’ that only served cocktails, smiling at women who don’t know my name but perk up at the mention of his, I can’t hold it in anymore. I can’t.

All day, looking at these beautiful socialites and wondering, is it her? Or her? Which one is he fucking?

I don’t want to care. I shouldn’t care. I knew it wasn’t going to be love. I didn’t expect that but I expected… something? I don’t get much more than commands. ‘You have to be here at this time’ and ‘smile’ and ‘stand up straight’ and the dreaded ‘suck it in’.

Not a conversation or even a touch. Nothing. Why did he even say ‘I do’? If he could have his pick, why?

Well, no use dragging it out. 

I wasn’t going to say anything. I really wasn’t but that day, I was just so… I can’t even find the word. I could feel the cracks in myself. I felt myself ready to shatter into pieces. Raw and ragged and just tired. So tired.

He wanted me to attend one of the dinners. They’re about as fun as staring into the sun. But he has to keep up appearances so I go along, that’s what I do. I’m his wife and I said those vows, too. To serve.

So, I put on a nice simple dress. Black velvet with pearls around the neckline. By the price tag, I just assumed that it was enough.

As I came downstairs, I could see him waiting in the foyer. No tie, collar undone, so casually thumbing at his phone. That phone! Constantly. I don’t expect him to stop but I would hope he might put it away for to seconds and not rub my face in it.

He laughed. That laugh. I don’t know, it just sent me over the edge. I’m not an angry person. It was so sudden, so hot inside me, I just couldn’t stop myself.

I stomped down in my heels, not gracefully, barely keeping my balance as I leaned on the bannister. As I came to the bottom, even the clomp of those stupid shoes couldn’t bring him out of his phone. I stopped in front of him.

“You can tell her you’re busy.” I snarled.

The moment the words came out, I regretted them. I do now. I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. One year, two months, nine days. That’s how long we’ve been chained together by a piece of paper. Just like you, dear diary.

Well, he didn’t like that but he put his phone away. For once he looked at me. No, actually, that’s a lie. He looked through me.

“What did you say?” He hissed. Oh, that went right through me like a bitter wind.

My mouth went dry. What did I say and why? But I kept going. I just kept going.

“Tell. Her. You’re. BU-SY.”

His eyes. To compare them to knives is an understatement. It’s like venom, seeping in, and it gets deeper in the veins the longer he glares. Oof.

“Are you telling me what to do?” He asked.

I didn’t know how to answer that, I didn’t care about his ego in that moment.

“So you won’t even deny it? Is that why you won’t even try to hide it–”

“Be a good wife and shut your mouth. Now.” He snarled like an animal. I’ve never seen a person look or sound like that.

And I did. I was so stunned, I snapped my mouth shut. Not just stunned, I was afraid.

“And fucking smile,” he grabbed my chin and squeezed. So hard. I can still feel it.

I smiled and he dragged me out like that. Hand on my jaw. Like a dog.

When we came outside, he let me go. Mr. Conrad was waiting by the car. Patient as ever. I couldn’t look at him. Or anyone.

We drove in silence. He drank scotch and pulled his phone out again. He didn’t wait for me when we pulled up. I chased him into the restaurant. I saw and didn’t say a word. I stared at the table all night. No one even noticed that I didn’t touch the food.

Nick stayed to drink at the bar, phone in hand. I know he was waiting for her to meet him there. I went home alone. Mr. Conrad drove me.

When we finally got home, I didn’t realise. Mr. Conrad stood by the open door and called my name. I apologised and thanked him. He asked if I was okay. I appreciated that and I lied to him. I said yes, I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m wonderful. Something that I’m sure wasn’t very convincing.

He asked if maybe the maid could bring me some tea. He’d go find her. I said not tonight. He was quiet and bid me good night.

He’s a nice man, Mr. Conrad. But he’s paid to be so. My husband pays everyone well enough that they never frown or complain. And they know better. I don’t.

I haven’t seen Nick since. I don’t want to see him. No, they only thing I ever wanted was to be seen.

That’s not going to happen and I just need to accept that this is how it will be. Life, marriage, everything. I’ll do it alone.

Alone but with you, dear diary.

I’m tired now. I need to lay down.

Dear Diary

I can smell her. He hung his jacket in the room, right from the post of the bed. He left it there. And I can smell her perfume.

I know it’s not unintentional. I know what he’s doing. Nothing he does is ever by mistake. I could admire that if he wasn’t who he was.

I took the jacket and I burned it in the yard. Yes, how stupid of me! I didn’t really think that through.

It threw it on the grass and dumped a box of matches over it before throwing one lit onto the scattered sticks. It wasn’t long before I had a blaze quickly spreading to the grass. Then it got very real and very smoky.

I still smell like it and I can taste it. That and my humiliation.

Mr. Conrad came to save me. He must’ve followed the scent and my chants of ‘Oh god, oh god, oh god!’ I went inside and came out with a pathetic glass of water that did nothing.

He appeared, my saviour, with the hose uncoiling, and sprayed the flames until they were dead. I watched him dumbly, the glass still in hand. How did I not think of the hose? Well, it’s the gardener that waters the lawn. And this house isn’t my home, just a prison. I don’t know much about it.

He used a stick to move around the wet remnants of burnt fabric and grass. “Are you well, miss?”

I blinked and nodded. I felt so dumb. No, I am so dumb.

“You are unscathed? No burns?”

 He came close and took my hand. He checked for blemishes as I couldn’t move or speak. His hand was so large and warm on mine. I desperately wanted to latch on and just hold it. Just to absorb some of that warmth.

“The next time you would like a fire, you should use the fire table. Or at least lay some stones. Or you might acquire a metal barrel.” He suggests.

He let go and I was cold again. I looked at my feet, still in my slippers and silk pajamas. I must admit, I was not the image of the woman of the house.

I apologised. He told me not to and once more asked if I was okay. I lied. Again. 

Then I came inside to hide.

I stink of smoke.