Spousal Duty
Joyce always believed that marriage was about the little things.
Shared coffee in the quiet mornings, holding hands on a walk. Not to mention the tiny, unglamorous sacrifices no one posts about on social media. Other wives complained when their husbands left the toilet seat up, but the thought made her smile, thinking of her own nightly ritual.
She hummed softly as she tied on her apron. It was the cheerful floral one with the plastic lining. “Ready, darling?” she called through the closed bathroom door.
A low, muffled grunt answered. Yes, then.
She fished out a small brass key and unlocked the door, stepped in, and locked it behind her. An unnecessary step in their own home, she thought, but he was particular.
Her husband, Harold, sat straddling the closed toilet lid, wearing nothing but his undershorts. The white of his briefs looked yellow under their cheap bathroom lights, and she could see the elastic waistband fraying. His hunched back was to her, and she could see his broad shoulders trembling faintly. She knew he didn’t enjoy the process and she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze of support. The air was damp and smelled faintly of ozone and something metallic. Joyce pretended not to notice.
“Such a trooper,” she cooed, fetching her pliers and a small glass jar from the sink. She had sterilized everything, of course. Cleanliness was next to godliness.
“Thanks again, Joycey,” Harold rasped. His voice was husky tonight, with a faint rattle around the vowels. “I’d never blame you if you, you know…if you got sick of this.”
“Nonsense,” she smiled, cheerful as ever. “For better or worse, remember?”
He made a wet sound in his chest that might have been a chuckle.
She moved behind him, surveying the landscape of his back. She lovingly ran a hand through the thinning hair on his head and then let her hand fall as she glanced down. One might call it a skin condition, she mused. Up close, though, that was being generous. In uneven patches his flesh looked too thin, broken by seams where it bulged like rising bread dough. Beneath the surface, she saw the faintest wriggling.
“I just had my nails done,” Joyce gestured as she pulled on her rubber gloves. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Harold replied.
She smiled. “Let’s get started.”
Tonight, the first one came loose with only a small tug—a pale, jelly-like nub extruding from between his shoulder blades. She dropped it into the jar with a soft, wet plop.
“How was work today?” she asked casually, as though they were chatting over tea.
“Better than yesterday,” Harold said, wincing as she pinched another lump. “Not as many –unngghh – pointless meetings. Still some, but then none of that will matter when, well, you know.”
“Some people just don’t have enough to do,” Joyce said, smiling warmly as she twisted the pliers. The lump gave way with a soft ripping, leaving a small, oozing cavity. Harold sighed in relief.
Piece by piece, she worked across his back, each growth stranger than the last—some shaped like knotted roots, some like tiny translucent organs pulsing gently in her grip. She hummed as she went, plucking, ripping, and occasionally pausing to lick her gloves clean.
“How many tonight?” Harold asked.
“Mm… nine so far. Maybe eleven before we’re through.” She glanced at his neck, where a thicker ridge of flesh trembled under beads of sweat. “This big one’s ready.”
She pressed her fingers around it, coaxing it upward. The skin stretched, thinned, tore like wet paper, and a slick, veined sac the size of an apricot emerged. Joyce cradled it delicately. It quivered once before going still.
Harold groaned, and, leaned forward to rest his head against the cold porcelain. “You’ve gotten a lot better at this.”
“Practice makes perfect,” she said, popping the sac into her mouth. It burst between her teeth, tangy and rich. She swallowed, wiped her lips, and reached for another of those that wouldn’t fit in her jar.
When she was finished, she swabbed his back with antiseptic. The air was heavy with the scent of rubbing alcohol, and other, indefinable things. She saw he was already healing, the gaping red holes in his back, knitting over in a way no human body should. The seams closed leaving only faint, ridged scars. Even these she knew were temporary.
She disposed of her gloves, twisted the lid onto the jar, and tucked it under her arm. Harold reached back, caught her hand, and kissed it tenderly. His lips were warm, but oddly textured, like soft leather.
“It’s always embarrassing,” he murmured. “But thank you.”
“Nonsense,” she said again, smiling down at him. “Every marriage needs work. Some just take…a little more commitment.”
She kissed his temple, ignoring the soft grating of cartilage beneath his skin. Then she packed up, turned off the light, and led him to bed.
The next morning, Joyce stood in the kitchen with her hair neatly braided and her pink robe tied at the waist. She opened the fridge and set the jar on the shelf beside a collection of Tupperware with labels like Tuesday Lunch, Leftover Dinner, and Spare Gravy. She poured herself coffee, sweetened with a spoonful of sugar. She glanced longingly at the jar, then down at her waist and sighed.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her sister; You’re coming to girls’ night, right? Don’t let him keep you chained down again!
Joyce grinned, quickly tapping out a reply. Of course I’m coming! Just as soon as I finish feeding him dinner first.
Behind her, Harold padded into the kitchen, shirtless. The skin of his back looked pink and new in the morning light. It was already starting to take on a shiny, taut appearance. She turned to greet him with a peck on the cheek, unfazed. He smelled like iron and electricity, like rain over a slaughterhouse.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Famished!” he said, mouth splitting into something that looked like a grin but wasn’t quite human.
She patted his chest affectionately. “Then let’s not keep you waiting.”
About the Author
Jordon Fletcher is a writer of dark literary fiction about the unseen struggles that bind and break us. He lives with his family and thinks too much about stories that hurt just right.