Whore, n:
A woman who engages in sexual acts for money: a prostitute; a promiscuous or immoral woman.
He called me a whore. Whether I was or not is a matter of semantics. I was an unfaithful wife, not for money, and not with many, but with one, the one who found me at my weakest. The one who meant less than nothing. He took advantage, as did I. He paid no price, for the indiscretion was financed by me alone.
I cried and my tears were true. I will not be one of those women who blame it on their husbands when they stray. Robert worked hard, traveled much, and I was alone too often. It was my own emotional frailty that allowed me to forget my vows, to overlook the deep love that I bear for my husband, to indulge in the cheapest of attentions, the momentary respite from loneliness, to enable the failure which cost me so dearly.
Divorce would have been merciful. We stayed together, but Robert forgave me in words alone. I came to understand that where once he saw his love, his partner, his ally, he began to see a thing, an object, a convenience that he does not really know what to do with.
I became the flat, paper definition of a wife.
We have tried to work through it, but I cannot make him love me as before. Can you blame the wine for running out when you yourself have broken the glass?
I cried as I carved the letters across my abdomen, pausing as I sliced the the first line of the 'W', embracing the pain, the humiliation which I so deserved. Gathering my composure, I continued: the 'H', the 'O', the 'R' and the 'E'. I marked myself for life because my life was over, finished, as were these letters, by my own hand. Rivulets of blood ran down from my handiwork. I had made of myself a lurid horror movie advertisement.
For hours I stood naked on the chair and waited. I heard the door open, heard Robert's footsteps, heard the silence which had replaced his loving call for me. I deserved no 'Honey, I'm home!' I deserved nothing, and into nothingness I will gladly disappear.
Through the blurriness of my tears, I saw the shape of my husband as he appeared. He dropped his briefcase as I kicked the chair away.
"I'm sorry."
I felt the noose as gravity drew it tight around my neck, forcing my head back, so i could see only the ceiling. It was providence, not I, that prevented those fragile vertebrae from snapping. I could not see as Robert ran to me. I felt his strong arms lift me, releasing the tension, allowing my breath to return.
"Oh my God, baby, don't do this!"
Frantic, he pulled the chair back up and gently maneuvered my feet onto it.
"Stand honey, please! Let me get this off you, baby."
He was crying as he loosened the noose and pulled it over my head.
"Why? Why did you do this?"
I had no answer. Shame has no answer.
