I can't remember why I married my husband.

The thought struck me while I was preparing my husband's dinner. 

I didn't remember our wedding.

“How was work, honey?” I asked my husband in a sing-song. 

I grabbed an onion to chop up. 

There was something wet and pooling on the chopping board. Black. No. Grey.

I shook my head and continued dicing.

“How's Bill?” I asked, trying to clean it up. But the growing stain was soaking through the rag. 

“He's wonderful,” my husband hummed, flipping through a newspaper. “I'm hungry, sweetheart.”  He motioned for me to keep chopping, and I did. 

 “Why, of course!” 

I calmly ran my hands under the faucet, watching the water change color, a vicious splatter on the stainless. My breath caught, shuddery and wrong. I grabbed a rag, wrapping it around my hand, where thick rivulets of black ran a river down my wrist. “I hear Bill and Betty are planning on having a baby!” I whipped off the apron.

“How… ludicrous, Darling! They can barely afford a television! Never mind a child.” 

I chopped another onion. The blade slid straight through my finger. Darkness bloomed across the chopping board, a thick, viscous consistency soaking through the wood. This time I stopped. 

I stared.

I… grabbed another onion with hands slick with black, like I’d dipped my hands in ink. 

“Honey.” The word felt devilishly wrong in my mouth. Preposterous on the tongue of a woman. Still, I spoke up, letting the darkness swim across the countertop, soaking my dress. “I was wondering, perhaps… Do we have any wedding film?”

To my surprise, Liam responded. “Yes. It's in the basement.” He slammed the newspaper down. “What's the matter, Honeybun?” He winked. I noticed his eyes widened when he saw the seeping black dripping from the countertop.

“Planning on going down memory lane?” 

“Why… yes!” I finished making dinner, swiping my hands on my dress.

By the time I was setting my husband’s plate in front of him, I felt awfully sticky. My favorite dress was ruined.

I kissed my husband on the cheek, ignoring the way he recoiled. My husband did not like physical contact; purposely turning his head when I tried to kiss him. So, a peck on the cheek would do.

“Excuse me, Darling!” I straightened up. I stared down at my stained hands. “I'm going upstairs to… freshen up.”

Liam’s gaze found my ruined dress. “Wonderful idea, Elsie.” 

I did not lie to my husband often. But this was an opportunity I could not resist.

Our wedding film was, of course, tucked inside my memories box, filled with trinkets from mother and my childhood toys. The projector was already set up. 

I stepped back as blinding light hit the far wall, colors feathering the footage. But what I was looking at wasn't my wedding. 

Instead, two plastic chairs. 

Sitting on one of them was Liam.

I stepped closer, my stomach turning. I couldn't quite believe my eyes. Liam was wearing the strangest of clothes. Half nude, wearing only under garments. Liam sat straight, his gaze glued to the camera lens. “Audition one.” A gruff voice spoke off camera. “Young man, please state your name.” 

“Liam Smith,” my husband said. His voice was terribly dull. Like he was tired.

His eyes were heavy. Strange markings stained his temples, and from the contortions in his face, I could see he was in... pain. “I'm twenty four years old, and…” he squeezed his eyes shut. “I'm auditioning for… a wife.” The footage flickered, and a woman appeared. 

Sitting in the chair, she appeared haunted. Hurt. Black splatters painted every inch of her skin. She fell forwards, and was violently pulled back onto the chair. When she screamed, her cries were muffled.

“My name is… Elsie.” She whispered, her head hanging, black spotting the ground. Her eyes found the camera. “I'm auditioning for… a husband.” 

I wasn't aware I was vomiting until I felt the cold concrete floor of our basement kissing my knees. 

The woman fell, sobbing, screeching. 

Her eyes were so familiar. Quite like staring at myself in a mirror. 

I grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and stabbed myself in the arm. 

A scream clawed. Bile filled my throat.

The vicious spiderweb of black pooling down my arm became red. 

I was bleeding.

The kitchen tiles, which had been black and white, were now yellow and green.

My dress… 

It was pink.

Pain.

Pain slammed into me, agonizing, rattling my body. Pain from the knife slicing through my fingers. Pain from me stabbing myself in the arm, color blooming across my vision, washing away black and white. The knife slipped through my fingers, my hands clawing at my hair.

I wasn't Elsie Smith.

My name was lost, my memories, along with color.

All I knew was that I didn't have a husband called Liam. 

I remembered color, but not how I lost it. 

Why my mind was polluted with honey, dear, and Darling.

Half expletives, and “terribly” and “Why, thank you.” 

A hand smacked over my mouth, rough arms yanking me back. 

“Elsie.”

My “husband” dragged me into the bedroom. I found my voice when he slammed the door. “You're not my husband,” I whispered, trembling, stumbling back. 

Liam held up his hands, a smile at the ready.

“Darling! Sweetie! Honeybun! Now, don't be ridiculous—”

“Stop*.” I gritted. “Who are you?” 

Something in his eyes darkened. Pitch black. 

“Fine.” 

He was in front of me in three strides, hot breath grazing my ear. 

“Right now, 50k depraved incels are watching a gay man and a lesbian play house so they can get their rocks off to us being straight.” His voice was different.

Sharper.

“If you don't want a bullet in the back of your pretty little skull in the next ten seconds, I suggest you put your arms around me, and at least try pretend you're head-over-fuckin’ heels in love with me.” His breath shuddered against my neck. 

“Please.”