Sometimes, husbands and wives write sweet, endearing little anecdotes about each other. They prattle on about gag-inducingly adorable little stories of foibles and flaws, painting a rosy picture of a perfect marriage.
This is not one of those times.
My story for today is sinisterly dark, betraying the inner workings of a subconscious desire to kill.
In a word, it’s terrifying.
You see, I think my husband tried to smother me in my sleep the other night.
If you’re an avid reader of my blog, you may be thinking to yourself, “Hm. Cassie already wrote about that crafty squirrel living in her apartment complex, and how that little bugger tried to kill her…and she wrote about that mean old lady at Toys R Us who tried to kill her when she grabbed the last of the squirt guns out of the sale barrel…and she blogged about that middle-aged mom who almost ran her over twice with the same shopping cart at Walmart…I sense a pattern of people trying to take her out.”
All true stories.
So you can see why this most recent brush with death has led me to the firm conclusion that I am being hunted down.
(If you’re a psychologist and you’re reading this, please don’t psychoanalyze me. Rest assured, all I really am is a Type-A firstborn with slight OCD tendencies.)
Luckily, on the fateful night my young life almost came to an abrupt and untimely close last week, I managed to escape the jaws of death by some fast thinking.
Let me set the scene for you:
It’s the middle of the night. The cicadas are humming outside and the dogs are breathing their soft whiffles of a snore outside our bedroom door. I’m bundled up in my blanket, sleeping peacefully, when suddenly I hear my husband murmur something unintelligible.
Sleepily, I asked, “Are you ok?”
He immediately sat up, promptly grabbed the pillow he was lying on, held it over his head, and then brought it down on my unsuspecting face.
And then held it in place over my head.
After a few seconds, Tyler let go of the pillow, saying “I don’t want it….I don’t want it.”
I lifted the pillow off my face and said, “It’s ok, I’ll take it.” I held onto the pillow for about two seconds, and then said brightly, “Tyler, do you want your pillow?”
(Incidentally, my tone was the same tone I take when I’m offering a treat to the dogs. That faked cheerfulness that says, “Oh, I know you want a bite of this turkey sandwich, but how about I give you this stale piece of dry fake bacon instead? Mmmm! So yummy!”)
His response? “Yeah, thanks.” He immediately slumped back down and started snoring.
Whew. Suddenly, I was given a second lease on life—and I wasn’t about to waste it.
I promptly fell back asleep myself.
Boy, our pastor wasn’t kidding when he said, “Until death do you part”. Neither was Tyler, apparently.
I never figured I’d almost meet my Maker at the hands of my zombie-like husband who was not just sleep-talking, but sleep-murdering.
Now, I just have to figure out how to sleep with one eye open…