Free The Other Side by Lacy M. Johnson

I collect beer cans in a big black trash bag. We eat cross-legged on the floor, perched on a pair of pillows. After I’ve taken three bites of egg and two bites of hash browns, he leans across the plate to kiss me.
    It makes me want to puke. Then I am puking.
    I come out of the bathroom and find him already apologizing. It was too soon. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—not after what you’ve been through .
    I tell him to shut up. I take him into the bedroom and push him down on the bed. I pull his pants down around his knees. I pull my skirt up around my waist. I don’t kiss him and don’t let him kiss me. I’m not gentle. This is not lovemaking.
    He’s still apologizing when I pull down my skirt and walk out the door.

    I return to The Strange Man’s apartment night after night, week after week, to play out this same scene. If we’re not onthe bed, we’re on the floor, or the futon, or in the car. Sometimes we’re in my apartment, or in a tent at a campsite, or stumbling through the alley after leaving the bar. Sometimes we’re at his parents’ house, visiting his hometown for a class reunion, or a birthday, or a wedding. It goes on like this until November, four months after the kidnapping, when he asks me to marry him. I’m not at all surprised by the proposal. I’ve staged the whole thing. I’ve sent My Good Friend to help pick out the ring. I’ve told him to take my Dad golfing, to ask for his blessing on the eighth green. I have put these exact words in his mouth: Will you marry me?
    I agree, not because I love The Strange Man, but because it’s what I need.

    One night, I drag myself home to my apartment after a long day of work. I have found a job as a marketing assistant at the university press, where I look for reviews of the books we have published and cut them out of magazines, or scan them, or type them into a Word document. Tonight, I have had to stay late for some reason or other, and when I leave the office, I stop at the grocery store for a pack of cigarettes and a bag of rice. It is nearly dark outside, and with the blinds closed, it is very dark in the apartment. All the lights are off. I turn my key in the lock, open the door, and walk into the living room, heading for the kitchen, like usual.
    It’s me , says someone in a wolf mask sitting on my couch.
    It’s a man’s voice. A man’s body.
    I drop all the things in my hands. Everything inside me falls. I don’t scream or cry out because in moments I’ll be dead. There’s a knife in the drawer by the stove. I watch and wait for what comes next.
    The man’s body stands up, the mask comes off, and underneath it: the face of the man who will become My First Husband. A prank he thinks might be funny. He’s not thinking.
    It’s not funny , I tell him, already pushing him out the door.

    It’s too soon , My Therapist tells me in December, five months after the kidnapping. It’s our last session before the holiday break and she’s suspicious of my good mood, of the complete and sudden recovery. She asks how I feel now about The Man I Used to Live With, about all that happened. I say I feel sorry for him. He doesn’t need prison; he needs psychiatric help . One corner of her mouth turns up in a smile. Before I leave I say See you next week , though I never return. I tell My Psychiatrist that I feel very happy now and he agrees to take me off the medication. I’ve never seen such resilience! he exclaims, as he begins writing instructions on a pad of paper.
    But the truth is, I don’t feel happy. I don’t feel angry or sorry or frightened or sad. I don’t feel anything at all.
    It must be the medication , I tell myself. I’m getting married and I should feel happy .
    All I want is to feel happy.

    At the wedding, Mom cries and thanks God for sending someone to love me. Dad cries and reaches for her hand.
    It is