She remembers the house of her husband
He’s not, as they said he is: loathsome, most monstrous. He has a strange and sinister beauty. His eyes are obsidian, shot through with gold, a ruby burning in each. A noble brow, and magnificent cheekbones. You can imagine them chiselled in marble: sharp and high, clean as my kitchen, glinting with the promise of new knives. He calls me his queen but, wherever I go, his panopticon gaze is upon me. I can feel his attention on my naked shoulder: his gaze sears my flesh like a brand. We hardly ever go out. He prefers to stay home. He isn’t popular at parties. I have thought sometimes a little soiree might be pleasant; but how would that even be possible? He emanates a strangeness that people recoil from; they can’t bring themselves to utter his name. He has many brave epithets: The Hospitable One, The Receiver, The Host of Many Guests. Some more foolhardy souls, those with not much left to lose, like to call him The Rat in the Hat. But I don’t think he cares much what others might think. He regards most people with indifference. I am the exception, perhaps. He loves me to distraction, or says he does, at least. The truth is I don’t think he knows what love is – and I don’t think he likes me at all. He sits day brooding in his study in those ridiculous dark glasses while his capos and henchmen do business. He is pitiless. The poets were right about that, though I’ll admit he has a soft spot for the dog.
Abigail Ottley is a poet and writer who is based in the far west of Cornwall. She is a member of the all-female Mor poets Collective. Find her on Instagram at: https://www.instagram.com/abigail_elizabeth_ottley/