The Monster She Chose

I woke up cold, Thanksgiving Eve all over again, the phantom pressure of water in my lungs, a chilling memory of how my wife Ashley had ended my last life.

Ashley was already humming, getting ready to leave-not for her aging parents, but for Brandon, her toxic lover, sealing her family' s fate with lies and then locking me in our bedroom to prevent me from interfering.

After a desperate escape, I raced to her parents' apartment, only to find the building engulfed in flames, while Ashley, through cunning phone calls, dismissed my desperate pleas to rescuers, painting me as an erratic husband and leading to my arrest as her parents perished inside.

My heart shattered by her shocking betrayal and Brandon's calculated cruelty, I was consumed by a cold, burning rage, realizing the terrifying depth of her obsession that led to such an unthinkable tragedy.

At the funeral, I publicly exposed Ashley's cold deceptions, and as Brandon shamelessly proposed to her amidst the fresh grief, his true monstrousness was revealed, finally breaking her twisted delusion and setting me free to forge a life unbound by their dark past.

The cold woke me.

Not the chill of the November air, but a coldness deep in my bones, a memory of water.

Thanksgiving Eve. Again.

My lungs ached with a phantom pressure. I could almost feel the water, Ashley' s hands holding me down.

Her face, twisted not with hate, but with a strange, calm righteousness.

"You ruined everything, Ethan. Brandon..."

Her voice echoed in the silent bedroom.

I sat up. My heart hammered, a frantic bird trapped in my ribs.

This was real. I was back.

Ashley was in the bathroom, humming. The shower was running.

She was getting ready to leave. To go to Brandon. To present herself as his girlfriend to his family, while her own parents, my kind in-laws, waited for us.

Waited for a Thanksgiving that, in my last life, almost killed them.

I saved them then. I called Ashley, dragged her back from Brandon' s.

She never forgave me. Brandon, humiliated, killed himself.

And then she killed me. Drowned me in our bathtub, the day after Thanksgiving.

Now, I was here again. Thanksgiving Eve.

The humming stopped. The water shut off.

Ashley came out, wrapped in a towel, her dark hair plastered to her head.

She smiled when she saw me awake. "Morning, sleepyhead. Big day today."

Her smile didn't reach her eyes. It never did anymore.

"Are you packed?" I asked. My voice was flat, devoid of the warmth I used to force into it.

"Almost," she said, breezy. "Just a few last things for Mom and Dad."

A lie. She was packing for Brandon. An overnight bag, her best dress.

"You' re still going then?"

She turned, rummaging in her closet. "Going where, silly? To Mom and Dad' s, of course. We talked about this."

"Brandon called you last night," I stated. It wasn't a question. I remembered.

She froze for a second, her back to me.

Then she laughed, a little too loud. "Oh, him? Yes, he called. Poor thing. Still carrying a torch after all these years. I told him no, of course. Thanksgiving is family time."

Another lie. She had giggled and whispered with him for an hour, thinking I was asleep.

I got out of bed. My body felt heavy, weary.

"Your parents are expecting us, Ashley. Your mom... she' s not well."

Mrs. Miller. Alzheimer' s. Her sweet smile, her confusion. Mr. Miller, always so kind to me, struggling to care for her.

They lived in Willow Creek Apartments, 15th floor.

Last time, a fire. Kids with fireworks on the 14th floor.

"I know, I know," Ashley said, pulling out a sleek red dress. Brandon' s favorite color. "That' s why I' m making sure to bring her favorite cookies."

She held the dress against herself, looking in the mirror. "What do you think? Too much for a family dinner?"

"Ashley," I said, my voice harder now. "Don't go to Brandon's."

She spun around, her eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? I just told you, I' m going to my parents' ."

"You' re lying."

Her face changed. The fake sweetness vanished. "And what if I am, Ethan? What business is it of yours?"

"Your parents are your business. They need you."

"They have you, don' t they?" she said, a sneer in her voice. "The perfect, dutiful son-in-law."

She walked towards me, the red dress clutched in her hand.

"I' m tired of this, Ethan. Tired of you, tired of this marriage."

"So am I, Ashley," I said quietly. "So am I."

That seemed to surprise her. She stopped.

"What did you say?"

"Let' s talk about this after Thanksgiving. After you' ve seen your parents."

She searched my face, then a cunning look entered her eyes.

"You know what, Ethan? You' re right. Family first." She smiled, a different, sharper smile. "Why don' t you go start loading the car? I' ll just finish up here."

I didn' t trust that smile. Not one bit.

But what choice did I have? I couldn't physically stop her.

"Okay," I said. "Don' t be long."

I went to the bedroom door. As I reached for the handle, she moved, fast.

She slammed the door shut, and I heard the click of the lock from the other side. The old-fashioned bolt she' d insisted on installing "for privacy."

"Ashley! What are you doing?" I rattled the knob. Locked.

Her laughter came from the other side, muffled.

"Just making sure you don' t do anything stupid, Ethan. Like try to follow me or call my parents with your usual doom and gloom."

"Ashley, open this door!" I banged on it.

"I' ll be back tomorrow, probably. Don' t wait up." Her voice was receding. "Oh, and Ethan? Don' t bother trying to spoil my fun. Brandon is much more important than you or my parents."

Her footsteps faded down the hall. The front door opened, then closed.

Silence.

I was locked in. Just like she' d locked me in my own helplessness last time, in a different way.

Rage, cold and sharp, went through me.

Not this time, Ashley.

I looked around the room. The window. It was a two-story drop, but there was a thick trellis running up the side of the house.

I had to get to her parents. The fire. It would happen.

And this time, Ashley wouldn't be there to be called back.

I yanked at the window. It was painted shut.

Cursing, I looked around. The bedside lamp. Heavy base.

I smashed it against the stubborn edge of the window frame. Wood splintered.

Again. The frame cracked.

One more hard hit, and the sash gave way with a groan. I shoved it up.

Cold air hit my face.

The trellis looked flimsy, but it was my only way.

I swung a leg out, found a foothold. The wood creaked ominously.

My hands gripped the dry, rough vines. Splinters dug into my palms.

Down. Don't look down.

My feet found the cross-sections of the trellis. Slowly, carefully.

A piece snapped under my foot. I lurched, my heart leaping into my throat.

My fingers tightened, scraping against the brick wall.

I regained my balance, took a breath.

Finally, my feet touched the soft grass of the backyard.

I didn't waste a moment. I ran to the garage, grabbed my keys.

The engine roared to life. I backed out, tires screeching on the driveway.

Willow Creek Apartments. I had to get there.

My phone. I fumbled for it, dialed Ashley.

Voicemail. "Hey, it's Ashley! Leave a message, or don't. I' m probably busy having fun!"

Busy. Right.

I tried again. Voicemail.

She' d turned her phone off, or was ignoring me.

The drive was a blur of traffic lights and frustrated honking. My honking.

Every red light felt like an eternity.

My mind raced. Last time, the fire started in the late afternoon. Kids playing with fireworks they' d bought from a shady corner store.

It was still morning. Barely 10 AM.

Was the timeline different? Would it be earlier? Worse?

The thought chilled me more than the November air whipping through the car' s vents.

As I got closer to Willow Creek, a knot of dread tightened in my stomach.

Then I saw it.

Not just a wisp of smoke. A thick, black plume, coiling into the clear blue sky.

From the direction of the apartments.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

It was happening. And it looked bad. Much worse than I remembered.

I floored the accelerator, weaving through traffic.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.

I reached the street. It was chaos.

Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances. Hoses snaking across the road.

People were crowded on the sidewalks, faces turned upwards, watching in horror.

The smoke was pouring from the middle section of the tall building.

Around the 14th, 15th floor.

Their floor.

I abandoned the car, half on the curb, and ran.

"My parents!" I yelled at a firefighter struggling with a hose. "My in-laws! Floor 15!"

He barely glanced at me. "Sir, stay back! We' re handling it!"

Handling it? The fire was raging.

I pushed past a police barricade. An officer grabbed my arm.

"Hey! You can' t go in there!"

"My family is in there! The Millers! Apartment 15B!"

"We have teams going in, sir. Please, for your own safety."

I wrenched my arm free. I had to get closer.

I saw the main entrance. Firefighters were rushing in and out.

Mrs. Miller. Her Alzheimer's. She' d be confused, scared. She couldn' t move well on her own. Mr. Miller wouldn' t leave her.

They were trapped.

I scanned the faces of the firefighters. Was David here? Ashley' s cousin. He worked at this station.

Then I saw him, near an engine, pulling on his helmet.

"David!" I screamed, running towards him.

He turned, saw me. His face registered surprise, then concern.

"Ethan? What are you doing here? Is Ashley with you?"

"No! It' s your aunt and uncle! They' re still up there! 15B!" My voice was raw.

"What? Are you sure?" He frowned. "Ashley didn't say anything about them being home."

"She doesn't know! Or she lied! David, they' re there! You have to get them!"

He looked torn. "Okay, okay, calm down. We' re sending teams up. I' ll make sure they check 15B."

He put a hand on my shoulder. "Stay here, Ethan. It' s dangerous."

He turned to go, then hesitated. "Let me just try Ashley quickly."

He pulled out his radio.