THE LOSER AND THE WINNER

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019

Warning: Horror.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

RT

PART ONE -- THE LOSER

1A -- MONTH ONE -- REALIZE

The sex was bad. I knew it was me. I had not been into it. My vagina had remained dry. My nipples had remained flat. My heart had remained unresponsive. My young stud hadn't turned me on. Again. Same as the previous buck. And the bull before that too.

To be fair, Craig had tried so hard. He gave me his best shots. Deft French kisses. Targeted caresses. Skilled cunnilingus. Expert teasing with his broadsword followed by a series of honed, playful thrusts. His moves would have turned any normal hormone-ridden woman mad with desire.

But I was 55, increasingly wrinkly, increasingly heavyset, increasingly finicky, and --- above all --- increasingly disinterested in sex. Menopausal women often are not interested. That I had sustained my urges and desires for more almost 7 years after years of my peri-menopausal punishment had been astounding. Even my doctor told me this blissful time would not last forever.

And tonight, it plainly, blandly ended. Craig had been a fun, enthusiastic lover. But I didn't feel anything for him or from him anymore. He had always been kind and considerate. His dash of boyishly immature tomfoolery had amused me endlessly for many months. Had it been passion or lust? Either way, it had not been love and, whatever it had been, was gone.

There was now something about this 43-year old virile man who had screwed me relentlessly at my bidding for more than a year that I found utterly unattractive. In a phrase, I knew I did not love him, he did not love me, and I wanted love. I knew that I was now officially growing old. I wanted someone to have and hold as I grew old.

Lots of weird thoughts go through your head when you tangibly consider your mortality. Who is going to bury you? Who is going to clean out your filthy, old-person dirty apartment or house? In the months leading up to your death, who will change your diapers, spoon feed you baby food, and wash your frequently dirties linens? Who will you talk to, day after day, when your ankles, knees, and hips are so gone that you cannot walk to the end of the garden and back? And who will still smile at you as they assist you in your everyday aching moments as old age catches and humbles you?

Who?

A loving husband, of course.

1B -- MONTH TWO -- RECOLLECT

It had been 15 years since I had last seen Gary, my husband.

Gary and I fell in love and married in our mid-20s. We were vibrant, energetic, and adventurous. We had some money. We travelled together. We worked together. We relaxed together. By any normal measure, we had it made: money, jobs, good stuff, good times. It would never end.

Well, until our mid-30s or so.

For me, it began to end as he spent more and more time in front of his computer. He often telecommuted; I never thought he was looking at porn or chatting up internet babes. He always seemed to be working quite hard at his work. But time in front of the computer meant less time in front of me. Coupled to his relatively pathetic salary (compared to mine), I very much resented that he was not paying me enough attention.

It's a slippery slope. Eventually, I resented him. Yes, that's by my midthirties, I think. Anyway, once I realized that, then it began.

Because Gary had stopped flirting with me; I started flirting with other men. I suppose I gave off some signals to other men. Regardless, in response, someone else gave me a bit of attention, a simple, kind gift, an 'aren't we naughty!' wink. I loved the game! And it so easily accelerates.

If you say you are available (married or not), then a good thing becomes easier to find, or it's easier for a good thing to find you. And I found one cautiously, then two easily, and then the third time after that was a charm. There were so many more times. Deep sigh.

And Gary became inconvenient. How do I explain my time away? How many late night, last minute jobs could I feign? It became bothersome to answer his questions; how dare he ask where I was on a weeknight at 11 p.m. His petty jealousy (so adorable when we were younger) became an irritant. His speeches infringed upon my new lifestyle; his fault. The lies, the deceit: they exhausted me, as did his flagrant skepticism when I spewed them. There came a point at which I decided that he had to be moved out of the way because of things he had done or was doing to hinder me.

I was probably in my late 30s then. Yes, 37. Starting at 37, I began his exile. I caused him to be fired from his job; with my income, we didn't need his paltry salary. And little strikes at a man's masculinity as harshly as being both unemployed and out-salaried by his wife.

Birth control pills first (he didn't have to know). An assigned household cleaning list second (a controlling exercise plain and simple). Then a bra (because he was 'found' holding one too close to his chest) with panties in aid. Then a skirt (to make his cleaning work easier). The inevitable hypnosis and deeper programming ("soothing music to lull you to sleep"). Soon after, the usual testosterone blockers and estrogen ("vitamins for your prostate").

When did I fully commit to this path? In retrospect, it wasn't the first time I saw him in panties. Or the first time in panties and a bra. I may still have had some playful doubts then. Rather, it likely was the first time I made him wear an actual dress. A normal man might perhaps possibly wear a campy one on Halloween. But no real man, no normal man, wears an ACTUAL dress. I could never undo that image. Yes, that's when he ceased to be a real man in my eyes. He said 'yes' to the dress. Once he saw himself in the mirror, his face visibly dropped. Mine lifted.

I increased our pace. I stopped calling him 'Gary'. "Sissy," I would call. "Girly-boi," I would ask. "It," I would reference him in front of him to others. And so on. I made him refer to himself in the third person; "Your sissy begs for an enema, Mistress." Fuck, that was funny. What was that other name? The constant name-calling objectified him and distanced him from his Gary ego. It also reinforced our different status and helpfully distanced me from the man I had once married and loved.

I was relentless.

The humiliations mounted: answering the door in women's clothing, tampons in the ass, eating dog food (wet then later dry), sleeping on a cot by the furnace in the basement. Cuckholding of course. Pegging. I also took great pleasure in compelling him to watch the video I had made and edited of his: 1) putting his own tiny chastity cage on his puny penis; 2) begging me to take the only key to it; and 3) giving me the key.

It's a predictable pattern, an obvious, downward spiral to an obvious, inevitable doom. Any reader of transgender fiction knows it far too well. I've been a successful businesswoman. I know a thing or two about spirals and patterns and gloom, I meant doom. Where was I?

Oh yes, by the time I was 40 years old, he was broken. For example, he no longer reacted to the video. His male ego was destroyed, his masculinity eradicated, and his entire sense of purpose in life had been re-oriented to serve me. I had long ceased around that time to even consider him to be my husband. He was a thing, a maid, a servant. An object. "It." Even his face was a picture of bland, boring, utter disinterest. Aside from issuing him a few succinct orders each day, I never talked to him anymore.

I could not divorce him; the legalities and economics would have disrupted my comfort. But our joint investments and savings plus my salary could permit me to enjoy the pleasure-filled life I had increasingly wanted.

Be assured that I never considered having him put down or thrown into a brothel in some god-forsaken place; that would just have been morally wrong. However, he had to go in order for me to live. I did some research, talked to some close friends who 'had connections', and soon enough I had found Shrublands Long-term Adult Care Facility.

They offered a variety of affordable plans that would suit my needs. I declined complete feminization because I never intended for Gary to be set feral in everyday society. I also declined intensive babyfication because the diaper stuff was simply too gross and laborious. I had to decline strict sissification because sissies have little if any redeeming social value.

You surely would agree that these fates would be too cruel, especially for an intelligent husband, who was continually befuddled without his knowledge or consent by various hallucinogenic drugs given to him by his adulterous and dominating wife and who, in that drug-crippled oblivion, was being sent into another oblivion, to wit, a mental institution.

Back then, I did have some nice thoughts of Gary in his pretty maid uniforms. I contracted with Shrublands to confine Gary in a working patient position. To significantly reduce my annual costs of his care, he would be an in-house maid for all the crazy people there. I also instructed the staff on certain aspects of his daily routine that I insisted they maintain for as long as he was there and on some other standards I expected to be achieved through the years.

I wondered what Gary would be like now. Wrong name: Jerri. I had renamed him, or her, Jerri. How could I have forgotten that? What else had I forgotten?

1C -- MONTH THREE -- RETURN

Anyway, I arranged with Shrublands the return of my maid. Not having seen her, rather, him, in 15 years, my plan had some risk. So, her return was conditional. Shrublands and I had to negotiate a contract and that took some time.

I insisted and Shrublands relented to an inspection-on-delivery. The moment they were in my home, I began to put Jerri through the 3 tests starting in my front hallway.

"Strip": all her clothes came off. I admit being shocked. The memory of a happy honeymoon couple --- decades ago, basking on a beach, dining at a resort, bonding in a bed, making love with my strong man's thick, long cock exquisitely satiating my soft, moist sex --- flashed through my mind. In contrast was the immediate sight, the jarring reality, of a tiny, puny detritus of the residue of the leftovers of the remains of it-might-haveonce -been a penis, dangling below a greying landing strip. That maid's penis could never have been my groom's cock.

At least the two butterfly tattoos on either side of the pubes had aged well; their colours were still so vibrant! I remember that party so well. It's amazing how creative a tattoo artist can be if you offer them lots of money. "Spin," and she did. Wow! I was so happy; the geisha girl tattoo that covered Jerri's back had survived the years just as well as had the butterflies. And the little red bows on the back of her upper thighs were there too.

"On your spot and stay," I said for the second test, indicating no spot at all. I wanted to see if Jerri would go to her precise spot. It was the one and only spot, the single spot on the ceramic floor to which I had long ago pointed daily and ordered Jerri daily to stand or kneel, head down, hands crossed and held at the breastbone level, and to await my return from work daily. If you looked closely, you could see the slightly differently shaded tile that the Italian contractor had laid decades ago.

Would Jerri find it after all these years?

She instantly found the groveling spot! I was so excited. My loving husband still remembered his place. I led the Shrublands delivery staff (two, strong, young women, actually) into the kitchen and offered them tea. We discussed current events and made small talk. We laughed at the stupidity of men. After 45 minutes, we returned to the hallway; Jerri had not moved.

These was one more essential test for Jerri to pass. The Shrublands staff turned away; I had alerted them what I would do. I lifted my skirt, pulled my panties to the side, and ordered Jerri to attend me. She instantly, slavishly kissed my mound. I was truly happy. I signed the papers and the Shrublands staff left.

I ordered Jerri to get dressed and to meet me in the adjoining living room in 5 minutes. I sat and waited. She came and stood in front of me. I looked her over and this is what I saw:

A middle-aged woman with a thin frame and thin features --- except those D-sized breasts. They had been my rash enthusiasm almost 20 years ago. I couldn't believe that they still retained their shape. His back must have suffered all these years. And she now weighed no more than maybe 110 pounds! The pink maid uniform matched the skin tone hose and white, hotel maid shoes. Her hair was drawn back into a ghetto-facelift ponytail. Her hair was brownish, dusted grey. His skin was youthful. Very few wrinkles for a 55-year old maid.

I felt old and very fat next to her; 'corpulent' Dickens would have written. Hack writer.

But it was her face that drew my attention. It evoked the face of Gabriella, Gary's pretty younger sister. I attended her funeral three years ago: cervical cancer. Yet that otherwise apt facial analogy failed at the eyes. Like Gabriella, Gary too had always had such bright, cheerful eyes. They had sparkled and filled me with joy. Jerri's had no brightness, no sparkle, no cheer. They were dull.

Well, at least he knows his spot.

"Follow me," and I proceeded to give her a tour of my home. I had lived there since I had married. It had been our home at one point. But that point was long gone, no matter what the title deed still said. I was well past that point too; every room had at some time during the past 15 years been redecorated to my tastes and satisfaction.

I commented as we toured. A kitchen and "I have several expectations for your work here". A dining room and "this you may recall is where you stand when waiting". Vestibule and foyer. Guest washroom. An entertaining lounge; well, it had been a family room when Gary was here, but I had it converted into a dimly lit den of lust for when I did not wish any of my lovers to see the second floor. You know, anticipation for the next time, keep them wanting more, rah-rah! Oh, those were glorious days! Maybe I'll repurpose it for my scrapbooks.

Anyway, closets and cupboards here and there: "the mops are in this one, remember?". The pantry. And so on. I occasionally glanced at Jerri who did not seem at all moved by her former residence nor its changes. It was time to go to the second floor.

I was wondering whether she would react at all to any of the rooms in the house but particularly two of them. The first was now my luggage room. When I first moved into the house, it had been one of the two walk-in closets off the master bedroom. It later became Gary's punishment room. And once he was out of the way, a luggage room it became.

The second room was formerly a small bedroom/nook for Jerri. These days, I stored old clothing, souvenirs from trips, old records, various handbags, and the such in it. I had to re-adjust the window and furnace and aircon registers before those things could go in. You see, when Jerri slept in that room, I ensured that, in the winter, the windows were locked open just an inch, and the registers were locked off. The reverse in summer. Either way, Jerri loses weight through shivering or sweating. What a subtle metabolic way to stay trim.

But she didn't react at all to her former bedroom. It might be explained it looked so different, given that I had it completely fumigated and renovated once I shooed Jerri off to the looney bin. Nor did he react to his old, personal torture chamber.

Surprising me, she stood at the foot of the king-sized bed and looked at it. The bed that Gary and I had shared, the one on which I had gleefully flown the Red Dragon into him, the one in which I cuckholded him, Jerri's first stop on every cleaning day, that old bed was long gone. Yes, the beds were in the same spot, that's all, just the same spot.

Enough of this sentimental crap. I had waited more than the few seconds the wimp's 'welcome home' party merited.

"Jerri, dinner, 6 p.m., one setting, Bach, white, fish (surprise me) and cold salad, and a warm dessert." I watched her scamper off downstairs and head toward the kitchen. That was so sweet of her; to think of preparing my dinner before even asking the conditions of her stay here. Craig would not do that. No real man would do that. But my loving maid would. And that's why I wanted her here for me now in my wrong-side of 55 old age.

Dinner was fine. You know, pretty good in a sort of everyday way. She'll get better with practice, I reassured myself. It was nice, though, not to have to clean up. For the remainder of the evening, she massaged my feet as I sipped a sherry and read the latest Harlequin Romance. Yes, they're still in business.

Then it was showtime, the moment for which I had finally felt compelled to withdraw Jerri from that depressing institution.

"Jerri, master bedroom, two occupants, overnight, bacon and eggs at 8 a.m. and orange juice too." And off she scampered, up the stairs, and toward the master bedroom. Devotion: she immediately prepared the room for me so that her cleaning up dinner would not inconvenience me needlessly. There's a nobility in her devotion.

I got ready for bed and lay in it. Once I thought the cleanup noise had sufficiently abated, I called for Jerri who confirmed that the house was clean and secure.

"Jerri, go shower in the master bedroom bathroom right now." And off she went.

"Jerri, put on the lace teddy that's on the table." And on she put it.

"Jerri, get into bed." And in she came.

"Jerri, satisfy me." And me she licked.

"Jerri, that's fantaaaaaastic!" And thus I came.

"Jerri, stay here tonight." And here she stayed.

It had been a few months since my last tonguing. It felt really good, endearing actually. Her again, after so long. Life's funny. I felt comforted in the embers of that intimacy.

This is how menopausal life should be. Single. Wealthy. Educated. Welltravelled. Worldly. Dominant. And some non-threatening, submissive human warmth in bed to attend to my care and needs and to clean and cook in my home. My charming, pretty husband at that too. Deep sigh.

"I love what we have, Jerri. Goodnight," I said with great satisfaction and rolled over.

"Yes, ma'am. Goodnight, ma'am."

I could listen to those loving words for the rest of my life.

PART 2 -- THE WINNER

2A -- YEAR THREE -- JANUARY 21 -- MONDAY -- EARLY MORNING

At 0500 sharp, I woke myself, slipped out of bed, replaced the bedding so Ma'am would not be cold. She was still asleep in bed, as she always was in the hours before the sun rose. I crept into my walk-in closet and dressed: some white cotton panties, a plain white cotton bra, my grey uniform, and some low-heel slip-on loafers. I scampered downstairs and headed toward the kitchen.

At 0510 sharp, I performed my morning ablutions, thanking Ma'am in my mind, as I flushed, for permitting me this specific time everyday to rid myself of filth.

At 0520 sharp, I turned on the e-pad Ma'am had given me and opened up Ma'am's agenda and my morning checklist.

At 0525 sharp, I turned off the house's security system and checked the weather settings. It was very cold outside. I looked out a window toward the garage where a light was on; there was a blizzard. Ma'am might be in danger of frostbite when she goes out today; I'll have to bundle her up properly.

At 0530 sharp, I checked the thermostat; the furnace was already warming the house for Ma'am too wake up at 0730 sharp.

At 0535 sharp, I began food preparation for breakfast for Ma'am. The two eggs were to be over easy for no more than 15 seconds, and were not to be pierced. The five pieces of bacon were to be flat and crispy, not juicy and wrinkly. The two pieces of toast were to be brown and buttered completely, especially in the corners. The five oranges were to be squeezed of their juices and chilled for no more than 90 minutes and no less than 45. The two strawberries were to garnish Ma'am's plate, each with five fanned slices. Once seated at the table enjoying her fresh coffee and paper, breakfast could be served seven minutes later.

At 0600 sharp, I wiped down and dusted Ma'am's chair and place at the head of the dining room table. I drew the curtains apart exactly five feet. I got the tableware and set the two forks, two knives, and the spoon in their exact spots. The serving plate was precisely in the middle of the mat, which of course was centred on the end of the table.

At 0610 sharp, I organized the distilled water Ma'am prefers and the Kona coffee beans from Hawaii she loves so that the brewing could commence at precisely 0715 sharp.

At 0615 sharp, I went to the front door, opened it, got Ma'am's newspaper, closed the front door, went the ironing room, and turned on an iron. I ironed the newspaper, then turned off the iron, took the newspaper to the dining room, and lay it leftmost of Ma'am's place.

At 0630 sharp, I went to the laundry room and folded Ma'am's towels. Each towel was folded end to end, then folded end to middle, with the end being short of the middle by one-half inch, and then the right side was folded upon a third of the left, which was then folded back over the remainder of the right, and then turned around so that the tag could not be seen. Her directions on towel folding had been very precise.

At 0640 sharp, I recited the Ma'am poem three times.

At 0642 sharp, I scampered to Ma'am's office off the living room, turned on the lights, opened the curtains, turned on the computer, dusted and wiped, and, as I backed out of the office, I carefully used my fingernails to fluff up the carpet wherever I had walked.

At 0652 sharp, I began to clean the guest bathroom in case Ma'am had a guest.

At 0700, I dusted under the edge of the carpet in the dining room, paying particular attention to where Ma'am sits.

At 0715 sharp, I turned on the coffee maker by pressing the button with my left-hand's pinkie finger per Ma'am's standing instructions.

At 0720 sharp, I conducted my final inspection and readiness check. I ensured that lighting pattern Alpha was activated in the dining room. Using the pinkie finger of my right hand, I turned on Ma'am's selection for this morning, Mozart. I examined the player; the volume was in fact on level three.

At 0725 sharp, I scampered up the stairs and headed toward Ma'am's bedroom. I stood, head down, hands crossed and held at the breastbone level, at the foot of the king-sized bed. I stared at my plastic watch.

At 0730 sharp, I woke Ma'am. "Good morning Ma'am. Checklist number one is complete. It is 0730 sharp on Monday, 21 January. Today's weather sees a blizzard, high gusts of wind, and temperatures dipping to minus twentyseven outside. The house is 22 degrees. You have only one appointment today Ma'am, with Dr. Rob Rideout again, at the Juniper Neurology Centre, at 0930 sharp. Matthew will be here at 0900 sharp to drive you Ma'am. May I please pull your bedding down for you Ma'am?"

Ma'am nodded as she removed her sleeping mask.

Quickly, I folded the bedding diagonally and then knelt by Ma'am's bed. I held her slippers and waited for her to sit up and flip her legs over. They appeared. I kissed her feet, left then right. I then put the slippers on, left then right. I stood up, lightning fast, and offered my hand to assist her standing up. She held my forearm and stood.

Ma'am smiled at me and said, "Good morning, Jerri."

2B -- YEAR SIX -- MARCH 21 -- WEDNESDAY -- JUST BEFORE NOON

It was getting near 11 o'clock. I grabbed my briefcase and the folio and scampered down the stairs and headed to Ma'am's office. I knocked on the door. "Permission to enter, Ma'am?" She lifted her finger; I entered.

"Ma'am, I have finished the following as you requested. First, the mailing list for Administrative Professionals Day next month. Second, reconciling the gardener's invoices with our costing. Third, if I may please sit for this one, Ma'am," --- Ma'am lifted her finger --- "Thank you, Ma'am, here are the two charts that you requested showing sales distribution and growth over the last two years."

I could see Ma'am's eyes dart around the charts. She was still so engaged! What the neurologists had foreseen, nature had accomplished. Ma'am was slowly degrading. The prognosis was grim and unalterable: an extremely active, alert mind stuck in an unresponsive but otherwise healthy, living, human body. Day by day, week by week, everything had been getting incrementally harder for her.

She could still talk, a bit she did, but not for very long, and her words and sentences kept getting shorter. We began to use a simple texting device to communicate; it helped when Ma'am was not feeling her best to talk. We also developed an increasingly sophisticated visual communication system: a wink, a nod, a tilt, a finger, and so on. I became quite skilled at anticipating Ma'am's instructions this way. And she could still walk, but the steps got shorter there too. There was no wheelchair yet. But there were some canes.

Ma'am sent me a message about one of the charts. I explained to her why the fonts used on the chart were so small. She seemed satisfied with my answer and said, "Thank you." I smiled at her and held her hand. She smiled back and, it took some time, slowly moved to hold my hand too.

"Ma'am, if I may suggest, we should be getting you ready soon for your appointment with the senior neurologists. Sally will be here in 20 minutes to pick you up and take you. And that's right! You should be smiling. This time, the doctors expect to say that your condition is fairly stabilized. I do hope so, Ma'am."

Ma'am started to speak but struggled. She texted me: "Jerri is good for my morale."

"That's right. Ma'am is best for Jerri's morale too!" I laughed and I knew that, deep down inside, she was laughing too. I helped her to her bedroom. Actually, it was more our bedroom now. I had never slept elsewhere in the house since my coming to her.

I helped her change into different clothes for her appointment. I helped back down the stairs and out to the car. I helped into the car. I waved her good-bye. "Don't worry Ma'am," I said, "this appointment only lasts three hours. You'll be back in no time at all for dinner. I'll see you in about four hours. You are loved, Ma'am." I blew her some kisses. Sally drove Ma'am away.

I went back inside. I puttered doing some cleaning. I filed papers away. I went to the bedroom and picked Ma'am's clothes off the floor. A key fell out of her oversized sweater. I picked it up. I looked at it.

Ma'am had started carrying this key several months ago. It had been in the house a long time before that: I had infrequently seen it. She had never wanted to put it on a necklace or secure it to something with a chain. It was the key to the one room in our home that I had never entered. I had seen her use it on the little door just off her office downstairs.

Come to think of it, Ma'am had not forbidden me to enter it. Moreover, much as Ma'am had given me more responsibilities around our home, it might well have been that she would have urged me to accept more
responsibilities in respect of whatever was in that room. This initiative would be another way to demonstrate my unending devotion to her. I had already completed my morning tasks. I had some free time on my hands. And she wasn't here.

I went through her office and stood by the door to Ma'am's secret room. As I walked in and turned on the lights, I received a text message from her: "Jerri have you seen a key of mine?"

Before I answered her, I looked around the room and saw many boxes and folders labelled 'Gary'.

2C -- YEAR NINE -- JULY 13 -- TUESDAY -- EARLY MORNING

I sipped my morning cappuccino by the pond. A couple of goldfish nibbled at the seed. The morning air still had that dewy feel and clean scent to it. The birds chirped. A woodpecker pecked away somewhere.

The smoked salmon eggs benedict had been delightful. I truly enjoyed cooking again. Experimenting. Ad hoc'ing. Going crazy with spices and herbs. There was a pleasure in it. And, after a pleasing meal, a glorious morning sunrise. There are worse ways to spend a life I mused. Things could be worse at 64-years old.

Yep. I guess I better get going to change the woman's diapers and give her some baby food. She'd been in her crib room now for about 12 hours. It's going to stink and be mushy. She's going to be irritable again. I wondered how she would look when I would take her sleeping hood off. It is amazing how effectively one can communicate with just eye contact.

Do not misunderstand me. I loathe that woman. I will feed her, clean her, change her diapers, wipe her down, push her wheelchair, and the such. I am not inhuman, you know. But I have limits. After her first meal (no matter what time of day it is served at), my objective was to get her into the Awake Room as soon as possible.

Its name? My reasoning was simple and I explained it to her; this was the room in which she would spend her time when awake. Hence, Awake Room.

And so it had been for three years. Long ago, she had converted my walk-in closet into a room filled with bizarre devices designed to torture me. I am calm enough today to assure you that they all worked. I remember all this now. I hadn't when I had first returned here nine years ago. There was a symmetry in using the same room for her. My old walk-in closet became my old punishment room, and her old luggage room became her current Awake Room.

I resisted my baser urges. Accordingly, my renovations were much more humane. The room got sound-proofed; she could not hear sounds from outside the room. The walls were redone in a bland beige identical to that in my isolation quarters at Shrublands. There was a single, naked light bulb in the ceiling.

Most days, after her breakfast bottle, I pushed her in there, took her hood off, left her in the middle of the room, and locked the door as I carried on with my day.

Month after month, there were so few changes to her day. She could stare at the wall all day long. Fall asleep. I didn't care. If I remembered in time, I would give her a baby bottle of some edible slop for lunch. It and breakfast left her diaper full. I often changed her diapers each afternoon; purposefully leaving it to get fuller and fuller would only punish me. And, after the changing, she'd be back in the room, locked again. Staring at an empty wall.

Honestly, I did break up that routine. I introduced Video Day. Irregularly, infrequently, I would place a screen in her room and play on a endless loop one of the videos that she had made of me, Gary, undergoing any one of the innumerable, humiliating cruelties that she had inflicted upon me. She had seven years or so worth of them; they had been in her secret room.

Thus, her entire sensory input day after day, month after month, was reduced to the following. Sleep. Diapers. In and out of a crib. In and out of a wheelchair. A tepid (maybe) baby bottle with at most five different tasting substances. A sense of movement as I would push her between the crib room and the Awake Room. Hood off. Hood on. The Awake Room. Diapers. And so on. A bland, featureless wall.

No sense of time. No meaningful human interaction (except with me, and, because I despised her, I would, generally, say nothing to her). No change of scenery. Day after day of gentle yet unremitting, relentless, continual sensory deprivation, or at least a lack of stimulation.

With one possible exception: the old videos of her torturing me. She had me confined to a mental institution for 15 years. I observed and so learnt a great deal about the human condition in that depressing hole. I stayed active, cleaning, waitressing, helping the other patients, and so on. My mind stayed active too. My imagination screamed at the daily protocols that woman had insisted be inflicted upon me: the daily enema, the daily dildo sessions, the gentle tranquilizers, and the such. And always in front of female staff. With brainwashing on top of those circumstances, you try to stay sane.

Regardless, in the mental institution, I observed that the patients who physically distanced themselves from the others were most likely to descend into some mental, solitary, self-imposed isolation. Some came out of it. Some did not (hence mental institution). The ones who did sometimes described their extreme focus, their fascination, their fixation upon whatever unusual oddity there was about the day or had happened recently. How they longed for something to think about, something to latch onto.

The very purpose of sensory deprivation is to deny that opportunity. And that is how I came to deny her as much sensory stimulation as I could, unless it would specifically cause her to be reminded of her actions, her torturing me, her degradation of me, her inhumanity. She could fixate about each video while in her wheelchair in her Awake Room or under the hood in her crib room. Now, those videos were cause for her to reflect upon her choices in life.

But I do not know what actually was going through her mind. For all I know, she was in ecstasy, reviewing her great, noble accomplishments against her evil husband. I know what would be going through mine were we to switch places. In the Awake Room. In a wheelchair. In a diaper. Entirely dependent for day-to-day care upon an ex-spouse whom I had tortured, thrown away, and then retrieved to attend to me. I'd be fucking terrified.

However, I did not have the time to dawdle on what thoughts might be going through that imprisoned brain of hers. I pushed her chair into the room. I gently took her hood off. The light blinded her. I flatly said, "Good morning, Ma'am." I didn't have to gloat or emphasize anything; the circumstances said it all. I left her, locked the door, and scampered downstairs, headed to the garage, got the car, and went shopping.

2D -- YEAR TWELVE -- NOVEMBER 2 -- SUNDAY -- MID TO LATE AFTERNOON

I checked the mail at the county post office. It was so good to see Mr. and Mrs. Patterson there again; they had recovered marvelously from their car accident. The temporary replacement postal worker --- Sara Collins, a ghastly woman, profoundly stupid and immensely dumb --- had been utterly useless. Anyway, I had promised to meet up with Audrey later in the week at the tennis club to help her balance the end-of-season books.

There was a registered letter addressed to Stephanie. It was from a pharmaceutical company's doctor. I opened it. "Dear Mrs...., We are pleased to elicit your interest in participating in a clinical study of a new drug that the leading neurological researchers in our labs believe will...."

WOW! There might be a complete cure for her. There was a form for Stephanie to fill in, attached to the letter. She was invited to indicate her acceptance or rejection of the offer to participate in the study. There was a deadline for applications; it was six months away.

I walked back home slowly, even though it was chilly. I did pause a bit to chat with Mr. Reynolds; he was finishing his leaves. "It's going to be a tough winter this year," he said. I nodded my agreement, helped him wrap an emerald cedar, and then carried on. I saw the Weston house was up for sale again; I hope they get what they're asking for it; Bev put so much into that reno. I popped into the bakery, saw Gail and chatted about the latest cat and cucumber video, and picked up some buns for dinner.

It was getting colder. A wet snow started. The wind was starting to cut through my hiking pants. Otherwise, my Gore tex jacket, wool sweater, waterproof gloves, and ponytail beanie were keeping me warm and dry. I hurried.

Once home, I made a tea and sat down to watch the remainder of the early game. Once upon a time, I had been an avid, regular Sunday football fan. That had been taken away from me for a long time. I had it back. I never wanted to let it go again.

I glanced at the lab's letter.

Stephanie had never taken my name off the title to the house. I had taken hers off. The same could be said for the bank accounts, investments, and the such; all had been switched into only my name for a few years now. She had empowered me in direct proportion to the growth of her disability.

I had often wondered why she would do so. Perhaps she thought my lapdog destiny would forever remain unaltered; she never expected to lose her key I suppose. I never settled on any satisfactory explanation. So, I simply stopped thinking about why she had done what she had done and hadn't done what she hadn't done.

But the letter gave me pause.

It had taken time, but I had established a cozy, little life in this smaller town. Friends, hobbies, exercise, outdoor activities, clubs, and parties. I had leisure time to read novels, write third-rate, flea-ridden stories for online fiction websites, cook, paint, try mountain biking. I had a great house. Why would I want to disturb this? Viewed in this light, a healthy, recovered, active Stephanie could be seen as an inconvenience at best and a recidivistic risk at worst.

Equally, I valued my relative moral position. I had been the victim. I had been emasculated. I had lost everything. I had been committed to a nut house. I had been transformed into a maid. I had been sexually, physically, and psychologically abused at the hands of my wife. Her Awake Room and crib and hood paled in comparison to it all. Why imperil my relatively clean conscience with denying her a chance to be cured?

The first game ended. The ageless Tom Brady and New England Patriots won yet again.

I don't know why, but I slowly walked upstairs; no scampering this time. I headed to my bedroom; it had once been our bedroom. I went into my current walk-in closet; she was in my previous one, the Awake Room, my erstwhile punishment room. I undressed. I took off my light makeup. I put on for the first time in a very long time my pink maid uniform, skin tone hose, and white, hotel maid shoes. I drew my hair back into my maidly ghettofacelift ponytail. I looked in the mirror.

In the mirror was the little scrawny maid that, twelve years ago, arrived back at her family home after 15 years in a mental institution. Stephanie had put me there; I would never forget that. Yet I had never resolved my inner debates about forgiveness. I had not forgiven her but could not, for my own mental balance, shutter the possibility of ever forgiving her. What if one day, for my own sake, my own soul, I needed --- wanted --- to forgive her?

Forgiveness, however, was not on my agenda today.

I took the letter, got a few small thumbtacks, and went to the door to the Awake Room. I unlocked it, walked in, and stood in front of her. Stephanie moved her head slightly and seemed visibly shocked to see me in the maid's uniform. I kept the letter out of her sight. The break from her routine must have astonished her. And she had also not seen that uniform in years.

For a few minutes, I simply stared at her. I didn't move. I wanted her mind to digest the sight of me, Jerri her maid --- Gary her tortured husband for fuck's sakes --- freely standing in front of her. I do not know what raced through her mind. Mine was set on portraying no emotion at all. It required effort.

I tacked the letter to the wall in front of her, close enough so she could read it, and then walked around behind her, out of her sight. I gave her a long time to read, re-read, and re-re-read that letter, the details of the drug trial, the application form, and so on.

I had left the form blank.

From her back and her side, I looked at her. Old. Haggard. Completely grey. Balding too. Sagging everything. Wrinkly everything. Pale, waxy skin, untouched by sunlight for so long. And that dull, dreary, depressing beige shift. She was a 67-year-old piece of useless flesh. What did I have in common with her?

I was fit and strong for my age, outgoing, and positive about the many good things in this world. I was glad to see people in town and to learn about their lives. There's a sense of deep satisfaction in helping a neighbour fix a fence or paint a sewing room. And in having a laughing crowd around a friendly dinner table. There are some good things in this world; there are! And I like them. I want to experience them and to share them with other upbeat people, my friends.

I slowly moved back in front of her. I stood next to the letter on the wall. And I let the moment linger and linger and linger. There was no need for a single word. She stared at me. I smiled. She began to cry.

Swiftly, I took the letter off the wall, left the room, locked the door, went to undress and get back into my previous attire, then scampered downstairs and headed to the kitchen to make dinner before the Sunday night game. I left the letter somewhere in my bedroom.

I did not know what I was going to do, but I felt an exhilaration that had not caressed my soul in decades. I now knew there would be one commonality to every possible future open to me at this moment.

It would be there if I chose to stay with her, to nurse her through the drug trial as she hopefully would be progressively cured, and to try to salvage some shred of humanity from her.

It would be there if I chose to stay with her, her disability, her wheelchair, the Awake Room, and our current routine.

It would be there if I chose to abandon her to silently rot, alone, unable to call for help, in an empty house.

It would be there no matter my choice, and it pleased me quite a bit:

I had won.

END

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019