Selkie

You do not remember what life used to be like. Or rather, you remember it, but it is hazy now, as if you are seeing it through a curtain. Some mornings you wake up and think you can feel seafoam on your skin, waves pushing against your breast. Some mornings you wake up with a smile on your face, but it is not yours. It belongs to some past you, some other you. And you are not her. 

You get out of bed with a sigh, and get your husband breakfast. From the moment your dreams leave you, he is there to replace them. Sometimes you wonder if he is real at all, or just a demon lurking in your mind. He is already dressed, with the silver key on a chain around his neck. You have almost forgotten what it unlocks now. Almost. 

He hardly looks at you as he eats, but you cannot help but watch as he chews and snaffles away at whatever you put in front of him. He seems to have grown larger – stronger – since he brought you here, and you have felt yourself slowly shrink away in comparison. There is a part of you that loathes yourself for it, but you have no choice. There is simply not enough space for the both of you.

He takes his fork and stabs viciously into a hunk of fish, the motion so aggressive the fork scrapes the plate with a coarse metallic hiss. You wince, but he will not notice. He used to look at you. Not kindly, not the way a wife wants to be looked at, but hungrily, as though you were his next meal, or a trophy to be won. He has no need for that now. He already has you.

He does not often leave the house. Each day is the same – he is always there. He does not seem to do much of anything; it is as though he exists to unsettle you: making noises where there should be silence, cursing where others would laugh. You wondered at that, at first, when he brought you here, carrying your coat with one arm and your shivering frame with the other. You worked up the courage to ask him what his job was once. You still remember the way he stared, his eyes bright, as he removed the key from around his neck, and polished it against the fabric of his shirt. His gaze never left your face. He smiled, all teeth, like a shark emerging from the surf.

“I’m working right now, my dear.”

Today does not seem any different. He leaves the kitchen as he receives a phone call and you take a minute to breathe. Of course, he will come back – he always does. You fiddle with the ring on your finger. The metal is cold and the band so tight it barely turns when you move it. You look out the window, the grey sea outside whispering to you through the glass. It is loud today, louder than usual. The fishermen’s boat bobs erratically atop the waves.

Even this moment of peace is soon stripped away, by muffled shouts from the next room. You cannot help but strain your ears to hear your husband’s anxious words.

“No. That isn’t possible.”

“How can they have found anything? We were so careful.”

“No, he wouldn’t have. There’s no way!”

“Stupid bitch.”

“Alright, alright. I can handle this. I promise.”

He returns a moment later, his face ashen. Instead of sitting back in his chair, he turns to face you.

“I have to leave. Don’t go anywhere. I mean it. I’ll be back.”

You nod silently, not trusting your voice to speak. This is new. He does not leave you – alone, at least. Sometimes he has friends come and watch you: cold, silent people who stare at you with unfeeling eyes. And even when he is not at your side, he is there, somehow, in your thoughts. But now he darts away into his bedroom, muttering angrily under his breath. Still, you do not move.

Eventually, the front door slams shut, and the house is filled with silence. 

Slowly, you rise to your feet. You make your way to the bedroom. You do not know what exactly you are doing, but a voice inside you urges you to go, that now is your chance. Else he will never, ever let you go. But there is another voice beneath that one – a slow whispering ‘what if’ that has you questioning everything. 

What if you cannot let him go?

This is the whisper that paralyses you. It even sounds like him, as though he is so settled in your mind that to be rid of him, you would have to yank him out like a weed. 

But no. You force yourself to push down the guilt as it threatens to overwhelm you. If he will not let you go, you must free yourself.

When you reach it, the room is much the same as it always is, although it is his, and you rarely have need to enter. You have your own room, but he comes and goes as he pleases. In the dark of the night, you feel his invasive presence next to you, his hot breath on your neck. You cannot suppress a shiver as you look around the space.

Then you see it – that silver key, discarded on the floor. He must have dropped it, and forgotten in his haste. You stare at it, not daring to touch it, not wanting to pollute yourself with him anymore than you already have. For so long now that key has taunted you with what you have lost. But you force yourself to pick it up, gingerly, as though it may scald you. You place it in the lock of the wardrobe. Your hands are steady, although your heart is racing, and when you turn the handle, the door opens with a low creak. Adrenaline roars in your blood. The wardrobe is completely empty, except for a single coat. Your coat. You cannot recall when you last cried, but seeing it there, so lifeless and dull, locked away in this cage, rageful tears prick your eyes. How dare he take this from you? What could possess a man to do this? For a moment you are paralysed, and though you tell yourself to move, to get out, quickly, before he returns, your body does not respond. All you can do is stand there, your vision wavering, and your cheeks awash with heat. But slowly, you remember what must be done.

When you lift it, the coat is lighter than you remembered. Now that it is in your hands, the call of the sea outside seems even stronger, guiding you. Reminding you.

Every movement that follows is dream-like, unreal – the steps you take walking out of the bedroom; the breeze rustling through your hair; the feel of the rocks on your bare feet. It is cold, you notice, out here on the beach, and you can feel goosebumps begin to form on your skin. But you do not mind. You left your clothes behind, and now you stand naked, with nothing but the coat in your arms and the wedding band lodged on your finger. His voice in the back of your mind is quieter now, drowned out by the roar of the sea. There is no one else to bother you here. It is just you and the waves.

Seagulls caw in the distance as you place the coat over your shoulders. The fishermen’s boat still tosses on the waves ahead, but you do not care if they see you. You are in control now. Your face lights up in a smile; your first true smile in a long time. That life you dreamt about, the way you used to be: it is coming back to you. You are taking it back.

The smile never leaves your face, even as the coat melts into your grey skin. Your body begins to shift, becoming something else, something inhuman. It should hurt, perhaps, but it does not. It feels right, as though before you had been wearing a costume belonging to somebody else. You do not notice the wedding ring falling from a finger that is no longer a finger, and you barely hear it as it clatters against the rocks. You do not think of the ‘what if’s, those fears that once hissed from every shadow. You do not think of the one who was once your husband. 

You are yourself again.