Her Revenge Wore A Wedding Ring

I stood in the middle of my husband’s bedroom, the air feeling suddenly too thin to breathe. My eyes were fixed on the medium sized metal box sitting on the floor, open, in front of me. I was horrified, my entire body was frozen, as I stared into the box.

This was the one place I was never

supposed to look. Julian always told me this box held his most important business documents and family secrets, things that were too private for even his wife to see.

I had always respected his privacy and didn't talk much or even argue about it. For three years, I believed he was a man who just valued his personal space so I never trespassed, not even when I was too curious to take a look at what was so special that he kept in his room. He also always kept his room locked so me getting in was a problem.

However, I had watched him all day to take a look at where he always hid the key. The moment he stepped out, I grabbed the key and came into the room and a part of me desperately wished that I hadn't come in here at all.

With trembling fingers, I lifted the first thing that was inside the box. My heart began to hammer against my ribs. Inside, there were pictures, hundreds of them. But they weren't pictures of us, Julian and I. They were pictures of her, the woman I had been told was dead for years. My husband had told me stories about his first love, the one who died in a tragic accident long before we met. He had even cried about her once, and I had held him, thinking I was helping him heal, thinking that since he met me, he wouldn't have to think about her anymore.

But as I pulled the photos out, the truth hit me like a physical blow. There were pictures of her laughing in a park, pictures of them holding hands as a couple, and even pictures of them at dinner.

“Why is Julian keeping photos of a dead woman and he even hid them so well?” I murmured under my breath. Then I flipped over the one that felt and still looked quite new and then I felt the blood drain from my face. The date on the back of the picture was from just one week ago.

“She… She's not dead? His first love is… She's still alive.”

One week ago, he told me he was going on a business trip to the city. Instead, he was with her. She wasn't a ghost, she was alive, and he was still living a secret life with her. They had taken photos together and even stored them like this.

Whenever I asked Julian to take a photo with me, he always refused. He said he was camera shy, never liked taking photos. But he always took mine. Our house was filled with my pictures, and yet, he looked so happy and joyful with her?!

I sank slowly to the ground, my knees hitting the floor. I couldn't believe this. I didn't want to believe it. I started pulling everything out of the box, throwing items onto the floor in a panic. There were love rings with their initials engraved inside, small tokens from movies they had seen, and pressed flowers from dates they had shared. Every single item was a keepsake from her.

A wave of hot, suffocating anger rushed through my chest. I felt like I was drowning in his lies. In a moment of pure rage, I grabbed the heavy metal box and hurled it at the wall with a scream.

"You liar!" I choked out, my chest heaving.

The box flew across the room, but it didn't just hit the wall. It snagged on the thick, floor-to-ceiling curtains that covered the far side of the room. The weight of the box and the force of the throw tore the fabric, ripping it open quite a bit.

As the curtain hung limp and torn, I saw something peeking out from underneath it. My heart skipped a beat. I stood up on shaky legs and walked over, my breath coming in jagged gasps. I grabbed the edge of the torn fabric and pulled it wide open.

I stumbled back, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a scream.

Hidden behind the curtain was a massive, life-sized portrait of that woman. She was beautiful, but that wasn't what made me freeze. Right next to her portrait was a small, framed picture of me. I looked back and forth between the two, and a cold, sickening chill ran down my spine.

We were dressed in the exact same way. We had the same hairstyle. Even our smiles looked identical in the photos. We looked so much alike it was terrifying.

“What… What is this? Why… Why are we dressed the same?” I asked no one in particular. Even to how our hair was styled, our shoes, our poses. Even… Even the scar.

I remembered that when we first got married, Julian had persuaded me to get a tattoo. It was at the back of my neck. I was deathly afraid of getting a tattoo but he assured me that it was a small one, and that he found it attractive. So I got it. After I did, he changed towards me. He became even more loving, and I was glad I got the tattoo. But this woman… This woman had the same tattoo as me. She had the same everything as me!

“Does this mean…?” My breathing started to get fast. No. No. No. No. No. I realized at that moment that I wasn't his wife because he loved me. I was his wife because I looked like her. I was just a replacement, a doll he could dress up to play a part.

Then, I looked closer at her portrait. My eyes widened, and I felt a wave of pure disgust. There were stains all over the woman's face and body in the picture.

White, dried-up cum stains.

I began to shake so hard I thought I might collapse. For three years, I believed we lived a life of peace. I thought we were a happy couple. But it was all a sick, twisted lie.

My mind raced back to last night, where my suspicions began. I had been cleaning the hallway late at night, and I noticed Julian’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. We didn't sleep in the same bedroom, and I had never questioned it. I told myself he just liked his privacy. But last night, I saw him through the crack in the door.

He was on his bed, his eyes closed, moaning and masturbating. I had watched for a second, confused and hurt that he couldn't come to me to take care of it, until I heard him gasp out a name as he finished on the curtains. It wasn't my name. I had run back to my room and pretended nothing happened, acting like the perfect wife. This morning, he had even kissed me on the cheek and told me he loved me before leaving for work.

I was even confused as to why he came on the curtains, but it wasn't the curtains, he had been masturbating to a giant portrait of a "dead" woman while I was just a few feet away in the other room.

The room began to spin. I felt a surge of nausea hit me so hard I had to lean against the wall for support. My entire marriage was a lie. I wasn't a partner; I was a prop in his sick fantasy. I felt like I was going to throw up right there on the rug.

I panted, my chest heaving. But I couldn't start panicking now. I had to clean this all up, before he came back. I had to act like everything was fine. I couldn't let him know that I knew about his secret.

So I leaned down to start picking up everything, shoving them into the box. I wasn't in my right mind, but then, I heard a shuffle behind me, and a voice. Then I froze.

“So you found out, after all, didn't you?” The voice began. “And here I was, hoping that you would act like the good little wife that you were and stayed out of my business. Unfortunately for me, I overestimated you.”

I turned my head slowly, my throat dry. It was Julian, and he wasn't alone. He brought her, his first love.