LAYERS

Warren Wilson College

Claws. I see them behind his back. We are at the altar, and I am seeing what kind of man he is. Where others might cry or grin he simmers with a mouth full of razors. He looks hungry and I am afraid to feed him.

“Layers” she said. Sat me down and professed her sins. “My son has Layers, and who better than you to peel them away?”

The first year is slow. I often lay beside him, brushing at scales and ignoring glinting teeth. “Are you afraid?” he asks, curling around my form. I never answer him-or maybe I do, because he always laughs after.

The second year, I notice something strange. He is curling himself in loops on our kitchen floor. I ask, “Weren’t you Married before?” Yellow eyes blink at me

and then he frowns, says “Aren’t we married?” and refuses to say more.

The third year is angry. I know he is lying. Where are those other women? He refuses to answer. Coiled on our couch, head in my lap “Weren’t you married before?” Entwined in our bed, “Weren’t you married before?” I ask and ask, and he never has an answer.

The fourth year is filled with Silence. He leaves, and I never see him go. Once I thought to ask him where, and he placed a claw on my chin. His teeth gleamed yellow in the dark. “Do you want to know where those other women went?”

It is a spring day, when I find snakeskin lining our tub. Skin of monsters floating in rose tinted water. I can see him outside our bathroom-- no change. I ask him later, “Did it hurt?” and he looks from under lashes and replies, “No more than it ever did before.”

Layers, she said. He will lose his layers

and you must stay until then. I don’t have time to wait. I call and ask “Did you know?” She says yes. “Will I die too?” There is quiet, and then: “I had hoped you would be different.” Claws. He has claws, and I can tell that he is growing ready to use them. “How much do you love your son?” She pauses, exhales and then: “I love him enough to feed him.”

It is the eighth month of the fourth year. I think of scales, glinting teeth, and of the way his eyes scare me. How much do I love him? I will wait for him to come home, knife beneath my pillow. I will pray that tonight is not the night, and if it is I will pray the fallout doesn’t kill us both.