SWARTHOS

The other day, man, I took another fist to the gut, a psychic haymaker that left me reeling in the neon haze of my own shattered reality. Let’s rewind, but not too far, thirty years of this madness is too much to unpack, a labyrinth of betrayal so dense it’d choke a lesser man. Thirty years of gut punches, each one landing like a sledgehammer to the soul. I thought I’d buried this beast fifteen years ago, thought my wife’s three-decade dance with this nameless shadow—let’s call him the Ghost—was over. Done. Finito. But no, the universe loves a cruel joke.

Two mornings ago, I snapped awake at 4:30 AM, the kind of hour that smells like regret and stale coffee. My wife was slipping out the door, her footsteps soft but deliberate, like a thief in her own home. She’d fed me some line the night before about an early work shift, but 4:30 AM? That’s not work. That’s conspiracy hour. Something primal kicked in, some feral instinct that dragged my weary carcass out of bed, into my car, and onto the 405 freeway—a concrete river of despair that stretches into the abyss of Los Angeles. I was headed to a place I swore I’d never revisit: the Ghost’s lair.

The first time I saw her car parked in his driveway, years ago, it was like a shotgun blast to the psyche. A mind-numbing, soul-crushing detonation that left me stranded on some alien planet, gasping for air without a suit, stumbling toward his front door in a haze of disbelief. This time, I was no stranger to that barren landscape. I’d adapted to its toxic atmosphere, grown scales over my heart. Her car sat there, smug in his driveway, mocking me. Not at work. Never at work. I marched up to that nice wooden door—rap rap rap, my knuckles barking against the grain like a desperate plea. Movement stirred inside, a flicker of life behind the curtain, and there she was—my wife, her face a mask of astonishment, like I’d caught her robbing a bank.

But here’s where it gets weird, man, where the gears of reality start grinding. She’s standing there, eyes wide, wearing nitrile gloves. Nitrile gloves! My brain, fried from lack of sleep, worry, and the sheer weight of this obliterated moment, started clawing for answers. I’m seeing flashes of Fight Club Tyler Durden swinging open the door, those rubber gloves slick with God-knows-what after some twisted tryst with Marla Singer. My mind’s spinning, but I choke it down, keep it simple. “Go home,” I said, my voice flat as asphalt. She nodded, mumbled an “okay,” and I turned, got in my car, and drove back through the fog of the 405. I barely remember the ride home, just a blur of headlights and existential dread, but somehow I made it.

Now, the “explanation” oh, there’s always one, isn’t there? Some half-baked rationale to paper over the madness. This one’s a doozy, a real head-scratcher. The Ghost, this guy who’s been haunting my marriage for thirty years, he’s 74 now, twelve or thirteen years my senior. Math don’t lie, but it stings. Apparently, he’s a wheelchair-bound invalid these days, fallen out of his bed or chair or whatever contraption holds his brittle bones together. His caregiver couldn’t make it, so he called my wife my wife! To drive over at 4:30 AM to hook him up to some kind of hoist, some mechanical savior to lift him back to dignity. Or so she says. My brain was too fogged to process it, too battered to argue.

And then it hit me, a memory sharp as a razor. Ten years back, my own back gave out, left me sprawled in the front yard like a wounded animal, trying to drag an inversion table from the car. I was screaming in pain, calling for her my wife, my partner—to help me. She just sat there, glued to the couch, watching me crawl like a dog while the neighbors probably peeked through their blinds. Intense, bone-deep pain, and she wouldn’t lift a finger. Yet here she is, racing across town at dawn to play nurse for the Ghost. Vacations, trips, pleasant little outings with him—she’s done it all. I’m just the guy who married her, the fool who signed the papers.

There’s more, of course. The gut punches keep coming. Like the time she spit in my face for telling her to stop talking to the Ghost’s son. Or when she stabbed me in the back of the neck with an ink pen because I threatened to spill the whole sordid mess to her parents. Yeah, I could go on, but what’s the point? Every time I tell these stories, people get mad—not at her, but at me. They call me weak, pathetic, a spineless husk for staying in this marriage. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m a walking punchline. But in the wreckage, I found something, God. He’s been my only confidant, my only anchor in this storm. He’s carried me when no one else would.

Which brings me to today. I just got back from dropping off a piece of mail at the Ghost’s place. He’s sick, maybe not long for this world, so I slipped one of my homemade Christian tracts into an unmarked envelope and sent it his way. Just some verses, simple and true, about salvation through faith in Jesus Christ alone. My sister, God rest her soul, used to talk about this mess with me. She’d say, “You know, he could go to heaven if he has faith in Jesus.” Well, he can’t get there if he doesn’t hear the Good News, right? The Gospel, the real deal, the kind that saves souls. So I sent it to him. Everyone deserves that chance.

Praise God, I say. Praise Him for holding me up, for His Son Jesus Christ, without whom none of us would have a shot at redemption. I’m still here, still breathing, still believing, even if the world thinks I’m a fool for it.