I proposed to my then girlfriend three months ago. We met in high school, and I will never forget the time she first caught my eye. Her skin was the color of honey and her glossy hair a deep almond brown. Why she decided to join me at lunch that day was beyond me, but we hit off.

I knew she was perfect. I knew we were destined for greatness.

As soon as we were of age, I asked her to marry me, to which she agreed. Until then, life was perfect.

But that was before her skin started falling off.

“When will we meet that wife of yours?” my parents would ask time and time again over the phone.

 
“She’s not my wife. She’s my fiancé. Soon, I promise.” And I would hang up.

I looked towards my partner, who was busy watching a strip of flesh slough off her arm. It landed in her lap where a small pile of slimy gore began collecting.

“Honey!” I exclaim while rushing toward her hunkering figure on the sofa. She seemed distressed. “I told you to catch it when it falls. What’s wrong?”

She raises her head and holds me in a desolated stare. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

I stood over her searching for an answer, something that would relieve her exposed nerves.

“You look beautiful, honey. Why don’t I run a hot bath for you?”

“Okay.”

I left for a moment to fill the tub with steaming water sprinkled with rose petals. Upon returning, I carefully led her down the hall toward the bathroom; small bits of jellied flesh formed a trail.

“Smells nice, doesn’t it? I put in the petals, that’s why.” As I strip her of her dress, a sheet of skin clings to the inside of the fabric. “In you go, careful now.”

The water sloshes as she slowly lowered herself into the tub, carrying with it flakes of tissue that almost seemed to blend with the roses; her hair fanned out around her head as it was submerged. She begins running her hands over her arms to brush off any loose pieces of flesh when her demeanor suddenly changed. At first, she quietly sobbed, then gradually, her laments morphed into a scream.

“My hands!” she cried. “My hands are bones! My nails are gone! My skin is gone! What is happening to me?!”

“Would you be quiet?!” I shout. “You can just wear gloves. Now finish up. I’ll get your bandages.”

Just then, the telephone chimes and I storm out of the bathroom, upset at the sudden outburst but glad to have a reason to leave.

“Hello?”

“Hello, it’s Mom. What time is dinner tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“During our last call you said we could reschedule for today. Is you wife there?”

I suddenly felt a heavy panic in the pit of my stomach and glanced toward the bathroom. “I don’t think she’s ready yet.”

“We haven’t even heard her speak! Could she at least say hi over the phone?”

“Uh,” I bring a hand to my forehead, “she’s having a bath. I don’t want to walk in on her.”

“You two are engaged for heaven’s sake. Your father and I have gone through hell and back trying to figure out when and where our get-together will be, and we have decided it is tonight at your home.”

“We?”

“Yes, we. Now clean up, make the place presentable.”

My feet began to shuffle in a frantic pace. “I-I don’t even have dinner made!”

“Order a pizza. Do whatever you need to do. Your father and I will be there around 6.”

Before I could interject, the line dropped and I was left to my own hectic devices. I slammed the receiver back onto the hook and immediately clambered into the bathroom.

“Get out!” I scream at my partner, who looked frightened.

“What’s happening?”

“We need to put on your bandages and clean up the house. My parents decided to come over tonight for dinner. Hurry!”

I snatched her towel off the wall and promptly began to pat her down.

“I can do it myself,” she states, reaching for it.

“No you can’t. Not fast enough, at least. Get the bandages from the cabinet and stand with your arms out.”

I begin wrapping her torso, ensuring that no bit of muscle or bone was exposed, before moving onto her neck and arms. Following this, we went to the bedroom to pick out a dress.

“What if they call me ugly,” she sighs as I zip up the backside.

“They won’t. They’re good people.” I dig in a drawer and find a pair of mittens. “Put these on.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry for putting you through all this.”

For a moment, a paused to watch her expression fall from shamed to solemn. Of course I loved her no matter what, but deep down, I’d been waiting for those words.

“Don’t worry about it. Have a seat at the table.”

I spent those next few hours tidying up until the doorbell rang. Both of us fell silent as though we weren’t expecting visitors.

“Just stay quiet. I’ll do the talking,” I tell her, kissing her lips in reassurance. The door opens to reveal my mother and father, both with artificially cheerful grins. 

“It’s been ages!” states Mother. “I brought champagne.”

“Great, come in. Have a seat. Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, there.”

By this point, my mother had already made her way into the house and was waddling toward the dining room when a shrill screech suddenly tore through home.

“Ohhh!” She started to sob. The champagne bottle fell to the floor, shattering. “Oh, God!”

I rush toward her direction, only to find her cowering in the corner of the dining room with her shaking hands clawing at her eyes, attempting to erase the scene she had just encountered. “What happened?”

“She’s dead, son! She’s rotting!"

And in that moment, my eyes beheld not a shining beauty at the table, but a corpse. My father had also fallen backwards a few steps and was bound for the front door.

She reeked of death. I fell silent, staring into her sunken eyes.

I never meant to hurt her.

I just couldn’t stand the pain of losing her.