Two Minds Unbound

My husband was a psychopath. In the first year of our marriage, he killed my father. I forgave him. The second year, he killed my mother. I forgave him again. By the third year, he took my daughter from me and somehow, I still forgave him.

Now, in the fourth year, he finally pointed a knife at me.

I was overjoyed. Stretching out my arm, I smiled, my voice trembling with anticipation.

"Go on—right here!"

***

My husband, Josh, had been released from the mental hospital again. I spent the whole afternoon preparing a table full of dishes to welcome him home—braised beef, steamed vegetables, his favorite mushroom soup, even a freshly baked pie cooling on the counter. I wanted everything to be perfect, as if the past didn't exist.

The moment my relatives learned of his release, they stormed in without warning, their faces flushed with frustration. The front door banged open, letting in the chill of winter and with it came their harsh words.

"Are you out of your mind? He's a murderer! Why are you keeping him around?" my uncle bellowed, his voice trembling with both anger and fear.

My aunt, clutching her coat tightly around her chest, added, "He killed his own mother, then your parents. What are you thinking?"

I met their accusatory gazes with a calm, steady expression and firmly shook my head. "You've all misunderstood him. He's actually a very good person."

The room fell into a tense silence. Only the faint ticking of the wall clock could be heard as I took a deep breath before continuing, "His mother's death was ruled self-defense—an accident. It haunted him and he wasn't himself either when he killed my parents. He's just... unwell. With the right treatment, he can get better."

My relatives exchanged incredulous glances, their disbelief evident. My uncle pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, while my aunt clenched her jaw, her lips thinning into a disapproving line.

"You're beyond help. One day, he's going to kill you too," my uncle said, his voice low but cutting.

I chuckled softly, the sound more to myself than to anyone else. They didn't understand. How could they? I was honestly looking forward to that day.

Turning away from them, I approached Josh, who had been standing quietly in the corner, his hands clasped in front of him. His expression was serene, almost detached, as if their words didn't touch him. I reached out and touched his arm gently, offering him a reassuring smile.

"Honey, don't worry about what they say. They don't understand you."

Josh nodded calmly, his voice quiet but steady. "Thank you, Catherine. You're the only one who sees me."

The tension hung in the air for a moment longer before my relatives, seeing that they could do nothing to change my mind, left in anger, muttering under their breath about my foolishness. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving a hollow echo in its wake.

I watched them go, my heart strangely light despite their harsh words. I couldn't really blame them—any normal person would think Josh was unstable. After all, at the age of eighteen, he had killed his own mother.

I knew a little about what happened. His mother had been unfaithful, openly bringing her lover home. When Josh walked in on them, everything erupted into chaos and in the heat of the argument, he killed her. The courts had taken his age and circumstances into account, sending him to a mental hospital instead of prison.

In the first year of our marriage, I had brought Josh to my family's home for the New Year holiday. We'd had a wonderful dinner—until something inside him snapped. Without warning, he picked up a hammer from the table and struck my dad down. Blood splattered across the white tablecloth, staining the festive lights that hung above us.

He was sent back to the mental hospital after that, where he behaved exceptionally well. Not a single violent outburst in six months. His psychiatrist noted his remarkable progress and I pulled some strings to have him reevaluated. He was eventually cleared for release.

The next year, during New Year's Eve, my mom came to stay with us. This time, it was her turn. Josh snapped again. I still remember the sound of her screams, how abruptly they had stopped.

After nearly a year of reevaluation and observation, the psychiatrist concluded once more that he had improved. He was allowed to come home. I trusted their professional judgment, but no one else did. My relatives whispered behind my back. Neighbors crossed the street when they saw us. None of it mattered to me.

With New Year's approaching again, I wanted everything to be perfect. I bought new clothes for Josh—a soft, navy sweater and a pair of well-fitted jeans. He looked radiant when he tried them on and I took him for a fresh haircut afterward. He smiled at his reflection, looking almost like a normal man.

That night, as we lay in bed, Josh hugged me from behind. His arms were warm, his breath soft against my neck. For a moment, it felt almost like any other marriage, except for the dark truth lurking beneath the surface.

I gently pushed him away, murmuring, "It's that time of the month. Maybe in a few days."

Josh didn't complain. He simply nodded and pulled me close again, holding me as we drifted off to sleep. Looking at his peaceful expression, no one would ever think him capable of such madness.

But I knew better. I smirked to myself in the dark, my heart brimming with a cold, strange anticipation.

The next morning, Rosa, our neighbor, dropped by unannounced. She had been Josh's childhood sweetheart once, long before his life spiraled into chaos.

"Josh, it's so good to see you!" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as if she had been waiting for this moment.

Josh didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and embraced her tightly, a bright smile on his face. "I thought about you during my treatment. You were my reason to get well."

Rosa blushed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I thought about you too."

I stayed inside, sitting cross-legged on the floor with my daughter, her giggles filling the room as I stacked wooden blocks for her to knock over. I didn't bother to intervene in their chatter. They sat in the living room, eating fruit and laughing like a pair of carefree lovers, oblivious to the dark shadow that hung over our home.