To make my husband, Derek, happy after he lost a leg, I secretly bought a trove of beautiful lingerie and toys. But he was never interested. I felt so guilty. Ten years ago, he lost his leg saving me. All I wanted was for him to be happy. It wasn’t until I was cleaning his old prosthetic that I found a tiny camera nestled inside the connection point. The videos showed him… and my best friend. Tiffany was wearing the nurse outfit I’d bought, laughing at me, as she used his prosthetic on herself. I didn’t cry. I just quietly ordered an identical prosthetic, but this one was filled with concentrated acid gel. And on it, I carved a single line: *Baby, let’s play something more exciting this time.* Every morning at six, my internal clock chimed precisely. The first thing I did was head to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Derek. He liked toast with a soft-boiled egg, a preference unchanged for ten years. The egg had to be cooked to the second. As I carried the plate into the bedroom, Derek was just waking up. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting dappled shadows across his sharply defined face. “Awake?” I placed the plate on his nightstand, my voice soft. He grunted, pushing himself up with his arms. He pulled back the covers, and the empty pant leg stared at me, a gaping wound that never healed, always between us. It was a heavy chain, binding me for ten years. “Which pants do you want to wear today?” I opened the closet, filled with custom-tailored trousers, all designed to conceal his missing limb. “Whatever.” His voice was always like that—a hint of impatient detachment. I was used to it. I picked out a dark grey pair, then knelt to help him put them on. Next came the cold prosthetic. The click of the clasps locking into place was the most familiar sound of my ten-year marriage. I carefully adjusted the tension, ensuring every component fit perfectly. “There you go.” I said. He stood up and walked a few steps, without the slightest limp. No one but us knew he was an amputee. He turned, looking down at me, still kneeling on the floor, a hint of disdain in his eyes. “Tiffany’s coming over today.” My heart gave a faint lurch. Tiffany King, my best friend. And the only person in this oppressive house, besides me, who could bring a hint of a smile to Derek’s face.
Tiffany arrived precisely at three in the afternoon. She carried the latest designer bag, wore a dress I could never afford, and her smile was radiant, dazzling. “Ellie, look what I brought you!” She held out a delicate box as if offering a priceless treasure. It was my favorite brand of perfume. “You shouldn’t waste money.” I scolded her, but a warmth spread through my chest. She was the only splash of color in this dull, suffocating home. “This is nothing! You sacrifice so much for this family, you deserve to treat yourself.” She said, glancing at Derek, who was on the sofa, engrossed in financial news. Derek lowered his newspaper and, uncharacteristically, smiled. “You’re here.” “Yeah, Derek. I was worried Ellie was working too hard taking care of you by herself, so I came to help.” Tiffany settled naturally beside Derek, picked a grape from the fruit bowl, peeled it, and offered it to his lips. Derek opened his mouth and ate it. Their intimacy caught me off guard, leaving me stunned. But I quickly smothered the tiny spark of discomfort. Tiffany was just naturally warm and affectionate. Besides, she truly cared about me. During dinner, Tiffany regaled us with funny stories from work, making Derek laugh repeatedly. Watching them, I felt like an outsider. After dinner, Tiffany offered to massage Derek’s leg, saying it could relieve muscle fatigue where the residual limb connected to the prosthetic. This was something I did for him every night. “No, that’s alright. I can do it,” I interjected. “Oh, Ellie, you’ve been busy all day. Go rest.” Tiffany gently pushed me onto the sofa. She rolled up her sleeves and knelt by Derek’s leg. Her fingers, through his trousers, pressed into his thigh muscles. Derek closed his eyes, his expression seeming to enjoy it. I stared at Tiffany’s hands, her nails painted a vivid red, stark against the dark fabric of his pants. Her hand moved slowly upward. Past his knee, reaching his upper thigh. My breath hitched. Derek’s body stiffened for a fraction of a second. Tiffany, however, seemed not to notice. She even laughed as she asked: “Derek, don’t you think my technique is better than Ellie’s?” Derek opened his eyes, his gaze deep and unreadable as he looked at her. Then, he shifted his eyes to me. There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes that I couldn’t decipher. He spoke casually: “She just doesn’t get it like you do.” My heart clenched, a sudden, suffocating squeeze.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Derek’s words were a thorn, lodged in my heart. I stared at his sleeping profile, and the scene of the car crash ten years ago replayed in my mind. The screech of brakes, blinding headlights, the metallic shriek of twisting metal. And his muffled groan as he shielded me with his body. He saved me. He traded his leg for my life. That debt, that guilt, was enough for me to do anything for him. Including enduring all his coldness and criticism. I rolled over, deciding not to dwell on it. Perhaps our marriage was just too dull. I needed to do something to stir this stagnant pool of a life. The next day, I found myself, for some reason, walking into an adult novelty store. Under the sales clerk’s knowing gaze, I blushed and bought a nurse’s uniform and a few accessories. That evening, I waited for Derek to finish showering, then changed into the outfit. The white mini-skirt barely covered my rear. The buttons on the bodice seemed ready to pop open at any moment. Holding a stethoscope, I walked up to him, my heart pounding. “Mr. Vance, do you need a physical examination?” I mimicked the seductive tone from movies, my voice breathy and soft. Derek looked at me, expressionless. His gaze traveled from my face, slid to my chest, and finally rested on my bare legs. There was no lust in his eyes, only appraisal. Like he was watching a clown. “Eleanor,” he said, his voice cold as ice, “Don’t you think you look ridiculous?” My smile froze. “Change out of that. Don’t make a fool of yourself for me.” He tossed those words at me, then lay down, turning his back. I stood there, my blood seeming to freeze instantly. Shame, humiliation, and a sharp, piercing pain spread from my heart throughout my body. I looked at my ridiculous reflection in the mirror, and finally, the tears began to fall.
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