I really gave up an awful lot for Christopher. I gave up my virginity. I gave up my name. I gave up nine months of my life to give him our twin boys. I gave up my family and friends to move to Seattle for his big promotion. Hell. I've given up twelve years, from freshman year of college to now, to be with him.
Don't get me wrong. I'll never say I didn't want to make those sacrifices. I'll never even say I don't love him because I do, I truly do, I've never doubted a moment in my life that Christopher Hanson is my "soul mate" as it's called nowadays.
He's wonderful. Funny and intelligent, practical and hardworking. Tall and well built, with thick blonde hair and oceanic eyes.
But who ever said that your soul mate is perfect? Mine certainly isn't. Oh no. His one significant flaw is crucial; some would even call it a fatal flaw.
What you may ask. His wandering eyes of course, his lovely, wandering, cerulean eyes.
At first I was absolutely bewildered. What was wrong with me? Was it my fault? Did he suddenly hate my auburn hair? Had he grown a taste for brown eyes instead of green ones like my own? Did he have a growing lust for more curvaceous, less straight figured women?
He assured me it wasn't me, it wasn't me at all me. And for a time, I felt secure again until I realized that it of course it was me. It had to be. Because it kept happening, again and again.
I was enraged the first time, burning with hurt. But with each new woman, I grew colder and colder, more and more distant. And now it's nothing more than a slight pin prick of emotion.
And Christopher doesn't seem to realize the irregularity of his relationships anymore either. To work, to mistress, to wife. To work, to mistress, to wife.
He still kisses me before leaving for work, still takes me to dinner, still whisks me off to bed regularly for lovemaking. Of course, now that it's just a week before Christmas, he dotes upon me more than usual. Two weeks ago, he sent me a dozen roses just for be his "beautiful wife".
Last week he gave me a teardrop diamond ring, with our names engraved on the platinum band.
But this week all he's done is ask me playfully every morning: "What do you want for Christmas, Marie? What'll make you happy, baby?"
And everyday I smile and kiss his cheek, saying nothing, keeping my role as coy wife. But everyday I keep thinking the same thing.
All I want for Christmas is a bullet through your head.
If I can't put 9mm bullets through the heads of all the women who have tasted his lips, who have stroked his hair, who have loved him before and after me, I'll simply put one through his.
It's a matter of possession, what's mine is mine. And I'll have every person who sees his casket, who mourns his passing, who touches his cold, lifeless hands know it.
It's a shame. Nothing ruins the taste of eggnog like blood. Nothing ruins Christmas like a funeral.
I love my husband. He's my soul mate. My best friend.
But nothing ruins a woman like a man.
All I want for Christmas is for a pistol to gently kiss his temple and for his eyes to still on me. For once. Forever.
Author's Note: I know it's short but I feel that this is all Marie had to say. Hope you enjoyed it.