text: Note: This story was written for a project I call "Love and Monsters," a collection of ten (?) short stories covering a variety of genres, themes, and styles. The only rule is that each story feature both love and monsters, though the interpretation of these two terms is very open. If anyone is interested in this project, I've completed two other stories in this collection that I would be willing to share. I should also mention that this is an early draft, so suggestions and criticism are not just welcome, but encouraged. With all that out of the way: "Falling Apart, Together" By Rathgar Click. Click. Click. Ashley’s nails struck the kitchen table as she drummed her fingers. The rhythmic patter of her incessant tapping seemed to penetrate the tender barrier of my eardrums on its way to stab at my very brain. I said nothing, opting instead to watch her in silent exasperation. “I hate when you stare at me.” she said. “Good.” I replied. I clawed at an itch on my arm, tearing away at my skin. She glared at me. I glared back. She continued to tap away at the table. Click. Click. Click. ... There still existed a place where Ashley and I loved each other with a passionate intensity to rival that of the brightest burning star. A place where we lied awake, fighting the creeping sensation to succumb to sweet sleep and winning that war night after night just so we might have a few more minutes to stare at the ceiling as we enjoyed each other’s conversations about nothing in particular. In that place we held one another tight, careful not to release our grip for even a moment. We knew only contentment and bliss. That place is called the past, and only my memory can return there, though the cost of entry is a painful nostalgia too severe to subject myself to. Instead, I chose to live in the present, where our love compared only to the core of the coldest dying star. Where we lied awake, struggling to ensure the other did not see our tears as they rolled down our cheeks in silence. We rested two feet apart, careful not to touch. We knew only our own pain. That place is where years of tragedy and bitterness left us to rot, a fate I soon experienced in the most literal sense. Somewhere in the first few years of marriage I developed a serious skin condition, which I attributed to stress. My body itched and ached during moments of tension, a near constant state in our home. This left me with a collection of nauseating bare patches all over where I scraped the top layer of skin clean from my body. These disgusting marks, too numerous to hide, embarrassed me whenever I went out into public, a pastime I abandoned in favor of isolated solitude. Solitude, that is, except for Ashley. Though avoiding the outside world allowed me safety from any perceived mockery, it did force me into constant company with my wife, whose callousness exacerbated my stress-induced condition more than anything else. Most of all I hated her habit of drumming her fingers on the table while we spoke, the clicking of her nails against wood no better than scraping them across a chalkboard. My response remained the same as it had from the very beginning: a stiff, silent stare. She hated this more than any response I might muster, a fact which brought me no end of pleasure. Despite this tiny indulgence, I still lacked any real outlet for my nervous condition, so it worsened with each passing year. What started with scraps of skin soon developed into something much more serious, the gradual increase in my disease’s severity metamorphosizing me into a disgusting creature, a lump of clay turned flesh. Even now I cannot explain the development of this ailment. I can, however, remember the exact moment it transformed me from a man with an awkward illness into the thing lepers pity. My conversion into a walking infection began with four words. “I want a divorce.” said Ashley. “A divorce?” I repeated to myself. I tilted my head to one side, swallowed a knot of sickened shock, then collected myself. “No.” I said, and I left for the bathroom to start my day. Hot beads of water shot at my face as I stared into the face of the showerhead. A divorce? I could not imagine a more appalling fate. Our marriage broke apart years ago, but the concept of abandoning it altogether still frightened me, though I knew not why. My body shook as I stepped out of the shower and approached the mirror. My face lost its color and I realized that I feared the loss of something I had grown so accustomed to, advantageous to my wellbeing or not. I placed my face in my hands and drew them back against the sides of my head. My left ear dislodged itself. It sloughed down my face, slid around my chin, and plopped into the sink below me. I clasped at the side of my head in stunned terror, feeling the mushy, sunken hole where my ear should be. Crimson-tinged pus of brown and yellow stuck to my trembling hand. The logic of shock prompted me to grab my ear and force it back into place, a futile exercise. After several unsuccessful attempts at this endeavor, I surrendered to the fact that I lost a part of myself I would not get back. I examined myself in the mirror. From the proper angle I looked fine, but when I tilted my head too far the grotesque visage appeared, sickening even myself. I prodded the exposed hole. It did not hurt. I drew a deep breath and exhaled, releasing both my breath and my concern for my missing piece. I tossed my ear into the toilet, wiped up the wound with a bathtowel, and made a mental note not to turn left around Ashley, lest she notice my terrifying deformity. And with that, I put the incident behind me. I dressed myself for work and exited the bathroom. “You can’t just say ‘no.’” said Ashley the moment she saw me. “Truly, it’s not a question at all, but a statement. I want a divorce and there’s no more to it.” I held both hands over my leaking earhole in the world’s least subtle attempt to hide anything. Despite the blatancy of my effort, Ashley did not notice anything. I stared at her, saying nothing. She tapped her fingers on the dresser. I held my silence for as long as I could bare. The tension grew too intense and I relented. “We will talk about it later, my fallen angel. That I promise. But for now, I must go to work. I do provide for us entirely by myself, you know.” Ashley’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to speak, but I heard only a soft creak and the sound of the door latching behind me as I walked away. I smiled, having amused myself by shutting her up, if only this once. This charmed mood carried me throughout the brief drive to work, though it soon faded as my thoughts returned to the matter at hand. Ashley would give me no choice but to discuss her plan whether I wished to or not. I dreaded that conversation with my entire being. By the time I passed through the doorway to my place of employment, my mind swam with images of all the wonderful moments we would leave in the past should she have her way. Our first kiss, dancing in the backyard, making love under the stars in the park. It pained me even to think that the worst times might soon be lost. The loss of our only child, the betrayals, the pain we caused one another which we could never undo. Those may be horrible memories, but at least I shared them with someone who understood the particular pain they brought. Should we decide to separate she would leave me to suffer these reminiscences all alone. I attempted to shake the thoughts from my brain as I headed for my desk, but they remained persistent. Work could not distract me. I spent most of my day mulling over my wife’s request and contemplating a potential future as an aging bachelor. The very idea offended me. So engrossed in this line of thought was I that I forgot about the loss of my ear entirely. This baffling incident, which should have shocked me to no end, failed to faze me beyond the moment when it first occurred. Indeed, the event left so little an impression that I gave it no thought at all until, as I sat at my desk wondering if I still loved my wife, two teeth popped free of my gums. My previous experience was no isolated incident. I saw that now. I rubbed my jaw and two more teeth fired from my mouth, rattling across my desk. I ran my hand through my hair, which fell away in thick sheets as if my fingers were razors. Appalled, I shot out of my chair and excused myself for the day. During the drive home my thoughts again turned to divorce. And then it dawned on me. My worsening symptoms were not the natural progression of my strange disease, but rather the result of stress caused by Ashley’s declaration. Perhaps by saving our relationship I could reverse the damage, or at least see its cessation. And so, to spare myself further suffering, I committed to keeping my wife at any cost. I considered a great many ideas as I drove down the sunny street, but I did not settle upon a decision until I walked through the front door. I located Ashley, still moping around the bedroom as she had been hours ago. I did not speak at first. I watched her as her fingers danced across the dresser. Click. Click. Click. I shuddered at the sound. In an effort to end the horrid pounding of fingertips on furniture, I cleared my throat, then spoke. “Ashley,” I said, “I fear we have lost our connection. I believe we both are aware that things have not been good for some time. My dear, what I mean to say is, I believe we have fallen out of love.” “Indeed.” she said. “I gave so much love and got so little back, I seem to have run out. I care not to ponder your excuse.” “Preposterous.” I declared. “You’re the one who withheld from me. I offered nothing but passion and affection, but you could not be reached. Nothing pleased you.” “Hm. I suppose we see things differently.” “Quite.” I said. “But that’s not the point. I want to make things better. I don’t think it’s too late for us. Divorce is a nasty business. Let’s spare ourselves the embarrassment.” “What do you propose?” asked Ashley, her tone indicating skepticism. I opened my toothless mouth to speak but found my voice suppressed by the sight before me. Something brought Ashley a deep discomfort, so intense as to stop our conversation at once. She appeared to suffer some severe irritation in one eye, which she could not quell. Red, enflamed, and bulging, it threatened to burst free from its socket at any moment. I cocked my head to one side and watched in sickened fascination. She groaned with pain as she dug a finger deep into the cavern behind her eyeball and neatly plopped it out of its confines within her skull. It hung limp by the optic nerve before slipping out and rolling across the floor. Mortification overtook her face as she stuffed the loose gore back inside her. “That’s new.” she said, blushing. “It’s just been skin so far, but I guess it was bound to get worse.” “It’s happening to you too? Well, it’s not as bad as mine, but the pressure of this ordeal clearly afflicts you as well. So, let’s repair the situation before it gets any worse. It’s not too late, you know.” “I think it is.” said Ashley. “It’s time we separate, Clayton. Let’s leave on amicable terms rather than allow ourselves to waste away any further. Heed my words, my former love: cut your losses now. Accept what’s gone and flee before it includes any more.” “Give me one chance. That’s all I ask.” Ashley sighed and turned away. She considered the offer for quite some time before responding. “I’ll grant you one chance.” she said. “Every molecule in my body screams out for me to leave, but the sight of you begging me to stay is too pathetic to ignore. We can try once more, if only to convince you that it’s a losing game.” Though displeased with her reasoning, I accepted the offer. The following days were of an rare blend of peace and discontent. Though we had yet to recover our lost love, we did discover a new era of civility, the likes of which we had not enjoyed in years. But the peace was shortlived. The ceasefire collapsed days later when Ashley complained of my working late, which morphed into a prolonged and exhausting argument. As a result, a long stretch of skin on my side peeled away. The fingernails on Ashley’s left hand popped off, shooting in all directions, one after another. The next day saw a debate over some matter so trivial that I no longer recall the cause. Inconsequential though the issue may have been, it resulted in me vomiting a large squishy lump of unknown material while a torrent of blood flowed from Ashley’s empty eye socket. Our bodies diminished further with each passing day as the petty arguments grew more frequent and venomous. We soon took on the form of two horrid beasts, half-finished creatures marked by a hideous dissymmetry. I came to agree with Ashley that our problems could not be willed away through ignorance. Instead, I suggested we take drastic action. My proposal was a romantic dinner, which I prepared over the course of an entire day. The most extravagant thing I could manage, the meal consisted of every delicacy I could cook as well as several I really couldn’t. Buttered lobster, steak, and expensive wine were the centerpieces of the feast, but chef’s salad, mashed potatoes, and even chocolate mousse made an appearance at the table. With the lights dimmed, I donned my nicest suit and took my seat. Ashley joined me soon after. She drummed her remaining fingers on the table. I scratched at the shedding skin on the back of my neck as I watched her. For a long time, we neither ate nor spoke. At last Ashley broke the silence, startling me with both the sudden sound of her voice and the content of her statement. “You killed my baby.” she said, prodding at the salad with her fork. Her voice sounded dry; her face expressionless. She spoke as if the fact were not only indisputable, but of a casual enough nature to bring up at a fancy dinner date. My mouth hung open. “What?” she said. “You told me this was a chance for us to work things out. So, let’s start with that. You killed my baby. There, I said it. We can stop dancing around it. Now undo it, please.” “You know it can’t be undone.” I said, displeased with my response but too shocked to form any other. “Oh, really?” she said. “Actually, I didn’t know that because you told me we could still fix things. You said it wasn’t too late for us. That can only mean one thing. It means you’re going to unkill my baby.” “Stop saying that.” I said. “What? That you killed my baby? You did. You can’t deny that.” The toes in my left shoe released themselves from my foot. Ashley continued her incessant finger-tapping upon the table. The vibrations shook my body and caused my eye to twitch. I clenched a butterknife in my fist. “The abortion was a joint decision.” I said. “Oh, it was, was it?” laughed Ashley. “So, we were protecting both of our careers? We had to hide it from both of our mothers? Wait, which excuse did we go with again?” “I didn’t make the decision alone.” I declared. “You killed my baby!” she shouted, her voice cracking as she struck a note far above her natural timbre. “Stop saying that! An abortion is not the same as a murder. And you should be glad we never got to see that baby. You should thank me for sparing you that embarrassment.” “The baby was yours.” she said, her voice quaking with rage. “But you don’t know that, do you?” I said. “You can’t know that. Because, for all the hell you’ve given me, you know damned well that you are the one who destroyed our marriage. You are the one who stepped out.” “I made a mistake.” she whispered. “A mistake happens once. And now, thanks to your little slip-up, I live with the heart-wrenching pain of what you did every day of my life, Ashley. It never goes away. You hurt me and you can never unhurt me.” I punctuated this last statement by redoubling my grip upon my fork, resulting in the loss of my fingernails, shoved free of the skin by the pressure. Fuming, I glared at my wife, who was busy pulling a loose strip of flesh from her arm even as her perpetual drumming continued. Click. Click. Click. Tears welled up in the corner of her eye. “You think you’re the only one who’s been hurt?” she said. “I may have done something horrible to you and I swear I will regret it till the end of my days, but you can’t sit there and feign innocence. You hurt me too. Again and again you hurt me. You were always busy with your precious work. You never had time for me. I spent years feeling so unloved and unwanted because I pledged myself to you and you didn’t have time for me. That’s why I did it. Because, after being abandoned for so long and after being rejected so many times, I just wanted to feel wanted again. Just for a little bit.” My gaze became fire. “You are nothing but a... whore.” I spat. She remained unfazed. “It was easy, by the way.” she said. “He told me I was pretty. That’s it. That was all it took for him to have me.” She laughed. “Maybe I am a whore. It certainly sounds like it. But you know what? I’m glad I did it. Because I finally got to experience what it’s like when it’s done right. That’s right, Clayton. I finally got fucked right.” I slapped my hand against the table with pure fury, so hard that my entire hand detached, rolling across the table and taking out the baked salmon. “How dare you intensify a suffering you cannot possibly comprehend!” I screamed. “Suffering?” said Ashley. “Suffering is being married to you. You never want to leave the house except to go to work, and I’m honestly quite surprised you bother to come back. I’m left here alone at all hours, desperate for some form of social interaction. A kiss, a compliment, a conversation. I beg and beg on my hands and knees, but you refuse to see me. You won’t take responsibility enough to address my needs and you won’t take me anywhere else to save me from this crushing isolation. Not even for an evening. Not even to show me off for your own benefit. You leave me questioning night after night why I’m so unworthy.” “You don’t deserve to be taken out or shown off. You’re nothing but a common harlot.” I paused in search of an insult severe enough that it could not be taken back. “And you would have made a wretched mother anyway.” “And you are barely man enough to be called a boring, passionless baby-killer.” Ashley’s hair cascaded down from her head. My arm grew loose and stretched towards the floor like taffy before sliding off my shoulder and slipping out of my sleeve. I screamed out, not for pain, of which I felt none, but for the sound of her fingers pounding away at the table, neverending, penetrating my very soul. How I wished that she might lose those fingers next. But she didn’t, and the tapping continued, as did our parade of abuses and accusations, the collapse of our fragile relationship, and the annihilation of our very bodies. The dinner continued in this manner all night, and soon the two piles of body parts on the floor outgrew those resting upon our chairs. After each loss I considered her suggestion; leave now with what little remains. But I could not. I would never give up. Not because I still loved her, but because I knew I was right. In the end, neither of us left the table, opting instead to wile the night away engaged in a battle that could only be won through surrender. We both lost our tongues around the same time and, having lost the ability to speak, it seemed the argument might end at last. But even then, we could not resist the urge to find some means to hurt each other. It became clear in that moment that we were no more. There remained nothing left to save, nothing to gain, and only very little to lose. We went with losing. My body fell away, leaving me to rest upon the table as a pair of eyes and nothing more, my steely gaze fixated firmly upon what was left of my wife. As the last of her fell to pieces there remained but a trio of fingers, connected by a disgusting tangle of bloody nerves and exposed bone. I stared at those fingers, lacking even the features to express my rage. For all of eternity I would hold my ground, glaring at those fingers without a word. And in return they would spend the rest of time tapping upon the table. Click. Click. Click.