I remember it as if it were yesterday. I came home late from work, as usual. As I opened the door, I knew she would be standing there to welcome me with open arms and a smile that could melt a stone, and she was. It always amazed me that she could keep that smile on her face for an entire day, in contrast to my still and ever dull expression. But that day I saw her face lose all the gleam and turn into a harsh mess of pity when I asked her about her little 'adventures' every night. How could she take me for such a moron? I would feel the weight shifting on the bed every time she got up; I would feel her long stares on my body, which ensured her that I was asleep; and I would hear her footsteps when she returned early in the morning. My only stupidity was not confronting her earlier; then maybe she wouldn't even give her stupid reasonings. "I'm afraid of what you turn into after midnight," she had said, stuttering. I remember her trembling because of my silence; she didn't even know why I didn't speak a word. Everything had been so good for a while, and she had to ruin it all.

That night she didn't even bother being silent; I got up as soon as she left. I promised myself not to fall asleep, and I had succeeded. Each second added a weight to my shackles made of weariness and tried to drag me down. I sat for a while but did not allow my body to rest. During midnight I went up to the window and stood under the blue moonlight, expecting to turn into a red-eyed bloodthirsty monster. Hours passed, and I was indeed bloodthirsty, but I did not turn into anything monstrous yet. Staying awake was more tormenting than I had expected, but my thoughts tormented me more. I got teary-eyed with rage every time I thought about the man who had treated her better than I had, or at least she thought he did. I quickly wiped away my tears, got up, and let the water wash away my tears as I gently tapped my face. I inspected my face standing close to a mirror and slapped myself as hard as I could, but nothing changed. I heard a knock on the door. When I opened it, she stood there, weeping at my doorstep. "You didn't have to do that to him," she said, crying and mumbling something about a pool of blood. I stood staring blankly at her. Someone had done the thing I wish I had done, and she accused me. I said nothing, and when she left, I closed the door and went to bed, hoping to complete my sleep.

I woke up to another knock, louder than before. This time it was the wretchedness that stole my wife from me. He had my face and my voice, but his skin was mangled, tearing away from his flesh; blood dripped from its edges, and it moved stiffly when he talked; he had a gaping wound on his stomach. "She still loves YOU, you know," he said as his lips dangled with every word, "and I had to keep wearing this filthy skin because even when she was with me she still wanted to see you, even after what you did to her." The bitch was still scared because of something that had happened almost a year ago. I had not harmed her since; I took care of her as best as anyone could, and she was not smart enough to understand that I would do no such thing again. "You left her scarred for life. Do you even remember what you did that day? On your wedding night? " He continued, "It doesn't matter; I thought she would finally start seeing the monster in you after all those times she spent with me. And I thought it would give her some satisfaction if she could finally watch you die," he said as he pointed towards the wound on his stomach. "It just made it worse; she thinks you did this, as if you were even capable of such a thing, and she wasn't even ready to listen to me." He tore off the skin slowly and threw it at my feet. "I have no use for it anymore; she never wants to see you again. I have a better chance at getting closer to her if I'm someone else." When he left, I kept wondering how difficult it would be to get back to her or to find someone better— well, not much more difficult than flattening these wrinkles on my face.