I Looked Through My Husband’s Things and Found Something Vile

I snatched my hand back as my fingers grazed something sharp. My thumb caressed my forefinger, inspecting it for injury. After finding only a red stain on my skin, I tugged at the envelopes piled high on the back seat of the car.

My black sneakers kicked at the empty whiskey bottles filling the footwells, searching for a place to throw the stack of unopened bills and letters stamped with “Final Notice”.

I glanced over my shoulder into the trunk of the SUV. Fast food wrappers, sweaters, empty cigarette packets, and crushed beer cans formed a mound of trash, consuming the space. I swung the envelopes over my shoulder and slid them on top of the mess.

My eyes scanned the back seat again for the source of the pain. A glimmer of something shiny caught my attention. I picked up the empty Budweiser box and peeked inside. The blade of a pocket knife shone up at me.

A sigh escaped my lips as I dropped the box into the footwell next to me. There was no way I would find it.

After my husband had passed out in the guestroom, I’d settled our baby down for a nap in the nursery and ran out to my husband’s car.

I’d barely been able to squeeze inside with the trash that filled it but I found a slither of space on the back seat and began searching.

FedEx had delivered another letter that morning. It was the third one that month. My husband disappeared with the letter into the garage, not knowing I was watching from the window.

He told me the mortgage company had confused us with someone else when the letters threatening foreclosure started arriving.

My name wasn’t on the title of the house so the mortgage company wouldn’t tell me anything. I resorted to searching through trash and his whiskey bottle hiding spots to find out how many days I still had a place for my daughter to sleep. He still hadn’t signed the paperwork allowing me to take our daughter away and I needed more time to find a way out.

My heartbeat quickened as I glanced at the baby monitor on my knee — the screen split between the nursery and the guestroom where I’d hidden a second camera on a shelf. I couldn’t risk him catching me.

Both rooms were still.

A brown envelope tucked into the pocket of the chair in front of me caught my eye. I reached out and tugged it.

Whiskey bottles jumped out from the pocket and fell to my feet as I pulled the envelope towards me. My forehead creased at the sight of it. It wasn’t the envelope FedEx delivered and a glance in the opening showed it had nothing inside.

My temples pulsed. I reached up to massage them with my fingers, wishing for the ache to stop. My eyes flickered back to the chair pocket I’d just unsettled.

The white cap caught my attention first, followed by the orange neck of the bottle. It balanced just inside the pocket, screaming for my attention.

My fingers grasped it and spun it around.

A shudder ran through my body as I stared at my name printed on the side of the prescription pill bottle.

Instantly, I knew what it was.

The day we came home from the hospital with a new baby, I’d been prescribed three medications as a result of my c-section, which my husband went to the pharmacy to fill. When he returned, he only handed me two of the medications. He said the last one wasn’t available and he would stop by the following day to fill it. He never did.

My heavy breath echoed in my ears as I read the text under my name — Oxycodone.

Slowly, I leaned into the seat, allowing the tension in my limbs to dissolve. My eyes didn’t leave the empty bottle. The words didn’t disappear or change the longer I looked at them. They stood there, mocking me.

How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I realize what he’d done?

I twisted the bottle, finding the date I was discharged from the hospital on the side. My eyes felt heavy with sadness.

My husband had taken my pain medication. The pain medication I was prescribed after having our child.

A muffled cry escaped from the baby monitor. I looked down at the left side of the screen to see my daughter roll over in her crib before falling silent once more. The right side of the screen showed my husband sleeping soundly. My nose crinkled in disgust.

Rage crept through my body, reaching every part of me. Forgetting the envelope, I slammed my body against the inside of the car door, bashing it open.

My feet stamped onto the ground as I rammed the door shut and turned on my heel. I marched through the garage and into the house with my hair blowing wildly behind me. One hand held the baby monitor, while the other squeezed the empty pill bottle.

By the time I reached the guestroom door, I was out of breath. Adrenaline had pushed my lungs into overdrive and set my skin on fire. I grasped the door handle and pushed.

The stench of alcohol hit me hard, causing me to stop and look. His body lay flat against the mattress with his head almost dangling off the side. A loud snore erupted from his nose every few seconds. His face was blotchy and haggard. He’d aged.

My body fell calm. The adrenaline, rage, and sadness disappeared in an instant. As my eyelashes fluttered, blinking hard at the sight before me, I stepped backward and slowly closed the door.

After staring at the closed door for a few seconds, I turned and walked away. He’d only lie. He’d tell me I was crazy. He’d punish me for discovering his crime.

Why put myself through it? What was the point?

I crossed the hallway and entered our bedroom. A vase of artificial white flowers sat on the dresser. Swallowing hard, I approached and pressed the bottle into the vase, hearing it clink when it reached the bottom.

The bottle stayed there for three months until I left. I put it in my suitcase before leaving for the airport.

Now, it sits in my jewelry drawer with my wedding ring inside it. Every morning I see the pill bottle when I select a bracelet or a necklace to wear. And every morning I smile because it reminds me of the awful life I no longer have to live.