Chapter 2 - The Morning After
STANDING IN AN EMPTY CASTLE: Why My Husband’s Screams Echoed in a House with No Furniture.At 6:30 a.m., the summer sun began to spill through the naked windows of the master bedroom.
Daniel stirred. He reached out his arm, expecting to feel my side of the bed, perhaps expecting to find me crying, broken, or packed up in a neat little suitcase waiting for his mercy.
His hand hit nothing but air.
He opened his eyes, blinking against the bright morning light. He sat up, rubbing his face, his throat dry. "Elena?" he called out, his voice raspy.
No answer.
He swung his legs out of bed. The floor felt unusually cold. He walked out into the hallway and stopped dead in his tracks.
The Persian rug that usually lined the corridor was gone. The family photographs on the wall—gone. Only the small brass hooks remained, casting tiny shadows against the paint.
"Elena!" he yelled, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. "What is this? What are you doing?"
He ran down the stairs, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood. When he reached the bottom, he gasped.
The living room was completely, utterly empty.
The custom Italian leather sofa, the mahogany coffee table, the 75-inch television, the bookshelves, the lamps—everything had vanished. There was nothing left but dust outlines where our life used to be.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his chest. He spun around and sprinted into the dining room.
The dining table was gone. The chairs were gone.
He dashed into the kitchen. The counters were bare. The espresso machine, the matching ceramic plates I had been holding the night before, the knives, the food in the pantry—all gone. It looked like a model home that had never been lived in.
"What the hell..." he whispered, his chest heaving. He pulled his phone out of his pajama pocket and dialed my number.
It rang once, then went straight to a automated message:
"The number you are trying to reach has restricted incoming calls from this user. Please contact Vance & Associates Legal Group."
"No, no, no," he muttered, his fingers trembling as he tried to open his banking app.
A red banner flashed across the top of his screen:
[ERROR: ACCOUNT SUSPENDED. CONTACT SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR.]
His phone buzzed. It was a text message from an unknown, encrypted number. He opened it. It was a PDF document.
He scrolled down. It was a copy of the Quitclaim Deed he had signed years ago, highlighted in bright yellow, followed by a formal Three-Day Notice to Quit the premises, signed by a local sheriff's deputy.
At the very bottom of the PDF was a short, typed note from me:
Daniel,
You told me last night that you wanted to see where we stand. Currently, you are standing in my house. You have 72 hours to remove your personal clothing from the master closet before the locks are physically changed and your remaining items are donated to charity.
I hope Maya has a spare room.
May you like
— Elena
Daniel let out a guttural scream of rage. He kicked the kitchen island, but because the barstools were gone, there was nothing to break his fall. He collapsed onto the hardwood floor, clutching his foot, screaming my name into the empty, echoing house.
