Nightmare Fuel
The Spa
“Her own name hit her like a rock to the shoulder. Myra’s torso twisted around so she was face-to-face with her husband.”
Myra had been walking for two hours without speaking to her husband, Chris. She was cold. Chris didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t talk either. His hands reached out to touch different plants along the way, as fascinated by their brown descent into death as he’d been by their thriving colors just weeks before. He often crouched closer to the bed of leaves, twigs, and other dying things beneath their feet. He’d reach, eyes closed, into the soft wet piles. He’d take a deep breath. He’d open his eyes and keep them forward. Then he’d stand again, walking toward wherever they were meant to be. Myra watched and followed.
Chris looked ahead and all around them, but not at her. She didn’t take it personally. When she had suggested going to the spa, he followed up by saying they should hike there. Myra did not like hiking, or camping, or taking the long way, or any of the activities he referred to as “Type 2 fun.” Fun meant relaxing or being so immersed in play you forget how hard your body was working. She’d said as much to Chris in the beginning of their relationship, 10 years ago. His response was to take Myra’s hand and kiss the back of it. For a long time, she…
