Eight Rings

He gave her the first ring on the last day of grade school. A christening of their friendship, solidifying the bond they had formed. He told her that he would be her friend forever, the optimistic promise that only a child can utter. She smiled and bashfully pressed her lips to his cheek; it was what she would recall as her first kiss much later on.

She received the second ring when she was fifteen years old, long after the friendship ring wouldn't fit even her little finger. He had kissed her many times by then, and thought it best to bind her to him in some way. It was a promise ring and she accepted it, not thinking for a moment that she might regret it later on. She vowed that she would be his and only his, with the kind of blinded infatuation that only a teenage girl can possess.

The third ring was hidden in a pile of laundry-a chore she absolutely detested. This was after they had graduated high school. He'd promised her the world and given her a one-bedroom rut on the corner of Main Street. She trusted him in the way a twenty year old woman trusts a man who claims he will give her everything. So she bided her time, working in a department store and coming home only to fold more clothes. The ring had fallen out of her favorite pair of pants, a diamond solitaire glimmering in the afternoon sunlight. He promised her the world once more and she smiled, lifting her newly adorned hand and assuring herself that her future was, indeed, set in stone.

On an early morning by the beach, he slipped the fourth ring onto her finger. He whispered words he had spent an entire lifetime practicing, and she agreed, her cheeks tinted red as a bride's tends to do. Her gown was an off-white, discarded barely an hour after the reception in a Motel 6. He told her he was saving up. For their future and their family and the opportunities they would one day have. She kissed him fiercely, both of them disillusioned by the picture he had painted in the way that newlyweds usually are.

He blew the fifth ring in her face three years later. He had scraped together enough money to take her on a proper honeymoon with flowers and candles and cigars. Only they had gotten into a small argument, and knowing that she was allergic to the cigar smoke, he had callously blown it in her face. She was rushed to the emergency room and the vacation had been cut short. He whispered his profuse apologies, half his words cut short by the sobs taking reign of all his movements. She brushed her thumb across his cheek and forgave him, the way a wife who cannot stand to see tears in her husband's eyes does. In her state she was absolutely sure he had done it unintentionally, though some sort of suspicion lingered in the back of her mind.

She tried to hide the sixth ring with several layers of make-up. It framed her eye perfectly, the distinction between black and blue disappearing into hues of purple beneath the mountain of foundation she had applied. He had given it to her as a result of one drunken night where things had gotten out of hand. They shared a few words, and she acknowledged that she had probably gone too far. Otherwise he would have never done something like that. His hand had come towards her and yet she didn't expect it, the sting of a fist against her cheekbone, the brief moment of blindness that came with it. She nodded, taking full responsibility for it, the way a woman who is unsure whom else she can blame does.

The seventh ring found her in the hospital yet again. Actually, it found her before then, but led her to the emergency room on a second visit. His wedding ring had collided so hard with her eye that it had cut into it, drawing a welt and causing a gash. He rushed her to the hospital, as any civil husband might. There were no apologies this time, no tears. Instead he chastised her for creating such a mess, pointing out that if she had only listened when he told her something they would not be in the present predicament. She nodded, feeling slightly dizzy with the loss of blood. The seventh ring ironically presented her with seven stitches right beneath her eyebrow, a fitting number to all the rings she had acquired. They returned home and she silently agreed to all his words, the way a woman who is absolutely terrified of her husband does in order to keep it from happening once again.

Rain was pouring in sheets on the day the eighth ring appeared. They set it across her tombstone, a wreath with navy blue ribbons wrapped around it. Blue had been her favorite color, he knew. It had been her favorite color when she was eleven years old and had remained her favorite color through the course of her life. The eighth ring was the last he would give her. He felt remorse, though what for no one was sure. Perhaps because there would be no more rings to give; perhaps because she had run out of room for all the rings he had presented her with. He stood with his arms in front of him, folded in prayer. His face remained expressionless, much like a man who knows that he has murdered his own wife attempts to keep it a secret does.