Devil You Know

THE RETURN

JANE

I SPEND the remainder of the day doing what I do every Saturday—cleaning the house to within an inch of its life. Midnight Savior kindly shot over to jimmy the door open for me, and promptly disappeared after seeing the clear panic etched into the lines of my face.

What if Dylan had caught him there? What would he have done?

I couldn't dwell on the what-ifs; only prevent the maybes. So I scrubbed, polished, wiped, sorted, and folded until the house could be passed off as a show home. Not a single thing sits out of place. I even have the damn forks lined up perfectly on top of one another in the cutlery drawer.

Like the good little housewife I am, I make sure to shower away the sweat of a hard day's work before my darling husband returns home. The woman who stares back at me from the bathroom mirror shocks me to the core. It's fair to say I sometimes manage to go weeks without catching a glimpse of myself, but on those occasions where I do, it sickens me.

There was a time when I turned all the boy's heads—when I could walk into a party, and be confident that I would be noticed. Being so young, and stupid, I reveled in the attention, drank in the adoration, and basked in the popularity that followed. In high school, girls wanted to be me, guys wanted to date me.

But I was naïve, foolish, and unprepared for the harsh reality of the world. I married a guy older than me who knew what he wanted: a wife like his mother. I let him shape me into what I am today. I let him break me down, and strip me of my confidence.

Therefore, I did this to myself.

I allowed it to happen.

And now, I exert effort to try and avoid my reflection. I do what I can to dodge seeing the sunken eyes, the pale and dry skin, the stringy hair. I avoid at all costs seeing the woman in her twenties who looks like she's in her thirties. I deny the fact that the stress, the hardship, and the suffering has aged me, has stripped me of my beauty, and replaced me with a tired, worn out apparition.

Instead, I cover it up. I apply my mask.

For him I apply my makeup. For Dylan I style my hair. For that tyrant I turn myself into a beautiful woman once again, even if it is merely a charade built from cleverly applied makeup.

I paint my happiness on like an actor does in preparation for the final show.

And I smash that performance, each and every day.

To say that I pretty myself, that I clean the house purely for fear of upsetting Dylan two nights in a row wouldn't be sharing the honest truth. My hands keep busy to distract me from the core of it all—I miss Rocco. He's next door; safe, content. But the fact he didn't rise from the makeshift bed when I left that morning put me at unease.

Is it that terrible here? Do safety and security mean more to him than being with me? I shouldn't feel such a need to look into it, but damn it all, he's my dog, and he let me go at the drop of a hat. Man's best friend, my ass.

I stand in the kitchen with a carrot in each hand, the fridge wide open, deciding if I should cook enough for both of us, or myself only. Both options leave room for error. Either he'll be mad at me for wasting the food if he never shows, or he'll be mad I didn't prepare his dinner if he does.

Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

The fridge door swings shut with a quick tap of my foot, and I bring both carrots over to the chopping board. I might as well cook enough, and if he doesn't show, I can always freeze it and make out that I intended to prepare him a ready-to-eat lunch.