Plumbob- it was a tool- not a weapon. Inherited from my laborious father, he used the plumbob daily in his career. Now, my own husband, Kyler uses it. The plumbob would swing back and forth when attached to something, like a thin, weak string, holding a heavy tool. That’s how I felt when the plumbob was held against my throat. “Please don’t!” But, it was too late. He stabbed my legs first, tearing through the skin and the tissue, and the nerves, and the artery. Blood- it splattered everywhere, like a waterpik going against your tooth.  It jabbed into my skin, and with every stab there was another prayer that I would just go ahead and die. 

I blacked out and later woke up in the hospital. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”  The words were muffled and the beeping became louder than her voice, yet I could make out the words. I lifted my heavy head and looked down to see my whole body wrapped up. “What happened to me?”, I asked in sheer terror.  The nurse went on to say, “You’ve been in a coma for two months.  Someone stabbed you and left you to die.”, she uttered. I gasped, and the beeping increased. “Your husband would like to see you.” My head dipped once as the nurse gestured him in. Slowly, the door creaked open and light beamed through the door, making my vision blur. A tall figure walked up to the side of my bed and touched my bruised, once functional hand. “Who are you?”, I asked as I flung the ice cold hand off of me. “She has no memory.”, the nurse said to him in a quiet voice. “I am your husband, Kyler. We have so many memories together like going to the lake, playing Monopoly, and traveling the world.”, he said. I looked out of the window hoping this was all a nightmare. I couldn't remember my own husband and frankly, didn't want him touching me. Slowly, I dozed off. 

Hours later the nurse came in to ask some questions to hopefully refresh my memory. But unfortunately, nothing was traced back. “I brought Japanese takeout”, Kyler said as he cheerfully came through the door. The smell came upon me, causing me to vomit. “But, it was your favorite.”, he said hopelessly. The nurse went on to say that I’d be released the following day.  Moments after those words were spoken, Kyler fled in a panic. “Oh well.”, I thought. 

“Be sure to change the dressing twice a day, take your medication every 4 hours, and no walking until you can say the whole alphabet. I have no doubts Kyler will take excellent care of you.”, the nurse said as she was wheeling me out of Grady Trauma center. On the way home, Kyler reminded me constantly of our wedding day, and all the fun things we used to do. I asked for pictures, but he told me I wasn’t mentally ready to see them. 

    Disabled life was hard. Kyler left for work every morning at 7:00 am and got home at 6:00 pm.  My memory didn’t recall him being gone for work so long. I stayed in the bedroom with strict instructions from Kyler to not get up, unless the caregiver assisted me to the bathroom. I took bed baths with a cold rag. It was so bad that the smell of Irish Spring made me sick and I dreaded the stinging of my incisions. Kyler never showed me any pictures or spoke the location of our wedding. My doctor often called but I was never able to listen to the conversations. Kyler always told me “Doctor said the same as last time, stay in the bed and don’t get up. You’re no better.” I trusted my husband like a fish trusts water- knowing if I ran out of water I’d die. 

A month later and I had made tremendous progress… so I thought. I re-learned the alphabet and recited it daily. Kyler never recognized my success. He was always downstairs in the office, or at work. And the few times Kyler was upstairs, he wanted my affection but it was late at night and I was exhausted. One day while the caregiver and my husband were away, I felt the urge to get up. Carefully, I slid down the stairs, taking a two minute break after every slide. Once I located my wheelchair, I scooted hurriedly. As I climbed into the wheeler, each oozing wound tore open. I could hear the ripping of the tissue. Once again, I thought “Oh well.” Then, I wheeled myself to our front door. “I just need fresh air”, I said with a wheezing breath. Rather than enjoying the fresh air, I found myself captivated by our mailbox. “337”, I read. 

Suddenly, it clicked and I remembered the days walking out to the mailbox in the rain. After seeing those numbers I was able to piece together my home address.  When I opened the mailbox a rush of normalcy came over me. I felt like I was finally starting my life back achieving goals… until I opened an envelope addressed to me. “Kenneth Kyler Newman, passed away on February 3rd from homicide.” It was a death certificate, assigned to my own husband Kyler. “My palms were sweaty, heart racing, and my legs felt like congealed salad, with extra lime. Who was this guy living with me?”, I asked myself. Quickly, I realized he was the evil person who stabbed me and killed my husband.  I shuffled through the rest of the mail and glanced down at an envelope addressed to John Allen Faircloth. And right then, John Allen Faircloth pulled into our drive, in Kyler’s truck. He made eye contact with me and stopped at our mailbox, not yet realizing I had already checked the mail.