The Werewolf Bond

I was dying of Stage III cancer.

That was exactly what I was thinking about as the rain battered the windows and I stood in our dimly-lit kitchen, my hands trembling from hope-or the lack of it, and the weight of my illness as it pulled me farther away from life.

The diagnosis had first come six months ago, and every day after that was a battle. I watched myself grow thinner everyday, and the quiet attempts at chemotherapy had made me lose so much of my golden hair that being completely bald felt like a better fit. But the worst of these changes in the last six months was why I poured my fading energy into that night's dinner, praying it would bridge the chasm that had grown between Ralph and me.

I took in a whiff of his favorite roast as it simmered, the aroma mingling with the scent of the candles I had arranged with care while waiting for him to return. My body ached, but my heart ached more, as I now well knew that Ralph had been a stranger lately, his former warmth replaced by a new, cold indifference.

When the front door creaked open, my pulse quickened. I had been waiting all day.

"Ralph?" I called, stepping forward, my voice fragile and weak, but hopeful.

He was in the living room, shrugging off his drenched coat and tossing it carelessly over the sofa, his eyes avoiding mine and staring at his feet. I could see the exhaustion lines carved into his face, but it was the unbothered detachment in his posture that stung most.

"You're home. Dinner's ready," I said, forcing a smile despite the nausea I felt creeping up. "I thought we could eat together."

He paused, his gaze finally meeting mine-sharp, disinterested. "I ate-"

I couldn't listen to all he said, but rushed to the nearest sink where I threw up the contents of my stomach, retching everything up. Dejection came over me as I turned the faucet and let it run before washing my hands. Then I returned to him, where he stood with an expression on his face.

"Have you been doing that all day?" He asked, pointing irritatingly at me. His words were clipped, like I was an inconvenience.

"No. And I made sure to clean up well. Please, Ralph," I whispered, going close enough to reach for his hand, desperate to feel something of the man I loved. "We barely talk anymore. We should do something together."

He yanked his hand away, his angry voice slicing through me. "Sophie, stop pushing. I said no."

And without waiting for me to say anything else, he walked away without looking back.

The rejection landed like a physical blow, but I refused to let go of hope. I thought he was coming to terms with my illness, and that he just needed to deal with it. So I went and ate alone while waiting for him to come to me. He never did.

I decided that it was a bland meal without him, and tried to talk to him again in our bedroom, except that I walked in and found a velvet box sitting on the bed. He was nowhere close.

I opened it and found a golden bangle with a red diamond, delicate and dazzling.

My heart fluttered at the sight, and I remembered that our anniversary was near. He hardly ever remembered, but he had to have this time. Could this be for me? A sign he still cared?

I fastened it around my thin wrist, the cool metal soothing against my feverish skin. Just then, Ralph emerged from the bathroom, cool and composed. He was a handsome man with jet black hair, a pair of brown eyes, and a well-chiseled body. I found myself admiring the waist muscles that peeked above his towel, before taking another glance at his face.

And the handsomeness was spoiled by the rage in those features.

"What are you doing?" he growled, storming toward me.

"I thought-" I stammered, my voice breaking.

"You had no right!" He pulled the bangle away, and the humiliation burned hotter than anything else.

"Ralph, I didn't mean-"

He brushed past me to get to his closet where he tucked it away. "You're simply unbearable, Sophie. I don't want you touching anything that belongs to me."

I was frustrated that he was doing everything but seeing what I was doing to keep us alive, and the frustration morphed into rage. It was why I barked at him, asking one simple question as my eyes burned and the tears filled them. "Why?"

He spun around, his eyes blazing with something darker than anger. "You want to know why? I'll show you why."

Then he grabbed my shoulders, so hard that his fingers bit into my skin, and positioned me in front of the mirror so that he stood behind me, his beautiful form a contrast to my sick, surviving one, even with the rage that spoiled his features. "That's why, Sophie. It's because you are dying and at this point, I can't wait for the day you are lowered into the grave and I am set free from you. I wish you would just die, sometimes."

The words cut me open, each one a dagger to my already fragile spirit.

My illness had taken so much already, and now this?

"Ralph?" I asked, refusing to believe what I heard.

He spun me around, turning me to face him. "You heard me right, Sophie."

"But..." I began, the tears spilling out of my voice. "I did everything for you. You wouldn't be who you are without me-"

Whatever I would have said was lost with the slap he visited on my face, my cheek stinging as I stumbled back and crashed to the floor. "You might be regretting a lot the next time you say that to me." he snarled.

For the fifteen minutes after, I heard his feet drum against the cold floor, as I cried, refusing to accept my new reality. It was the sound of his keys and slamming the door shut that let me know I was alone, where I managed to pick myself up before my nausea overwhelmed me again. This time, I barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting.

Too tired to clean, I washed my face and then drifted into a restless sleep that I was woken from when my phone chimed loudly. It was a message from him, a video, and my curiosity made me open it. Immediately, I wished I never did.

For how else was I to process watching my husband slam himself into my best friend from behind, her mouth wide open as she moaned in pleasure. I never got to watch it to the end, because it disappeared almost immediately.

He had deleted it.