Pay attention. I’m going to share a story. I heard it first, and you will hear it second. Here in this telling, you get to make some of the choices.
There is a woman, and she is a man’s wife. Please give her a name. Call her whatever you’d like. Grace. Ximina. Shira. Bian. Zoe. Aaliyah. Name her after your grandmother, a good friend, or someone you’ve forgotten and want to remember. You can even give her your own name. I won’t tell. Keep her name a secret or share it with everyone you know.
Like her name, you get to decide what she looks like. There is no one thing that makes a woman. Don’t believe people who tell you otherwise. The only features the Woman must have for this story are to be able-bodied and financially secure enough to live in a house. All her other attributes are up to you. Fat. Thin. In-between. She can be of any race. Yes, she is married to a man, but she may not be straight. The Woman could be bisexual. Ace. A closeted lesbian, or perhaps transgender. She is young. She is old. She is the same age as you. Do write her a backstory.
No matter how you visualize the Woman, please think of her as a friend. Because somehow you have known her or will know her. Imagine yourself in her place.
The Woman is, to her great relief, not a mother.
This story happened a hundred years ago, it happened fifty years ago, twenty, ten, or five. It’s happening now. It will happen five minutes from now. Five years from now. If we aren’t careful this will happen in ten or twenty or fifty years. And if we are truly fucked, this will happen in a hundred years.
The Woman lived in a house with her husband. When they married, the Husband gave his wife a necklace. The necklace was a silver chain upon which hung a small jewel. See the gem as a diamond, a ruby, or maybe your birthstone. The Woman wore it every day and only removed the necklace when she bathed.
Her married life was not a happy one. The Woman wanted to divorce her husband. I don’t need to tell you what offenses he committed. I know you know what they are, what they could be. The Woman didn’t plan to tell her husband, but he found out anyway. He brought it up while they sat together in their living room after dinner. To the Woman’s great surprise, the Husband responded calmly.
“My dear, if you want a divorce, I will give you one,” he said, folding his newspaper. “On one condition.”
“And that is?” The Woman steeled herself for a degrading request. She smoothed her skirt down. Better than closing her hands into fists.
“Take off your necklace.”
The Woman’s lips pulled up in relief. Of course, he wanted back the gift that started their marriage. She fumbled with the clasp. No matter how she moved her fingers, it would not unlatch. The Woman tried to pull the necklace off over her head. But she couldn’t get the chain past her chin, no matter what angle she tested.
The Husband watched his wife with an amused expression on his face.
Fine. She’d rip the necklace off, clasp be damned. The Woman tugged and tugged, the chain biting into her skin.
“Excuse me,” said the Woman. She went to the kitchen and used scissors. They failed. Fearing she’d nick her face, the Woman found bolt cutters in the basement. Yet the chain didn’t yield.
The Woman got a jar of face cream from her bedroom. She slathered the lotion on, hoping the moisture could help slip the necklace off. All she did was scrape herself further. Could the necklace have shrunk? Absurd. She’d worn the necklace for years and knew the length as if it were a part of her body.
She wanted to cry. Instead, the Woman clawed and scratched. Her nails dug into her skin, blood dripping down her arms and onto her clothes. The necklace stayed on.
She returned to her husband.
“I can’t take it off,” said The Woman.
“Then I won’t give you a divorce.”
When her husband left for work the next day, the Woman packed a suitcase of essentials and went to her brother’s house. The Brother was surprised to see his sister on such short notice and without her husband. He and his wife welcomed her inside and settled her in the guest room.
In contrast to the Woman’s own life, her brother and sister-in-law were happily married. There was a slight scandal at their union, as the Sister-in-Law was slightly older and had been married before. She should appear to you as the grownup version of your childhood best friend.
The Brother and Sister-in-Law listened as the Woman explained her desire for a divorce and her husband’s request. She sat on an ottoman in their living room as they attempted to take the necklace off. The problem remained. Nothing the Brother or Sister-in-Law did unlatched the clasp or broke the chain. Stopping, the Sister-in-Law cleaned the scratches on the Woman’s neck and gave her a scarf to wear.
The Woman thanked them for trying. She was tired from the effort and went to take a nap. The Brother thought about what to do. He loved his sister and was fine with her staying with him and his wife indefinitely.
“Even if she lives here,” said the Sister-in-Law, “she is legally bound to her husband.”
The Brother was optimistic. “We just have to get the necklace off.”
“I don’t believe that can happen.” The Sister-in-Law was a clever woman. She touched her own neck, already thinking about how to get around the necklace.
In the evening, while the trio were eating dinner, the Woman’s husband came to get her. They had been sharing old stories when the banging started. The three went silent, knowing what the noise was long before the Husband began yelling. He beat on the door until the Woman asked her brother to let him in. The Woman was afraid of what her husband might do if he didn’t get his way. Remembering nights of broken dishes and hiding in the bathroom. Worse memories, too. Once the Husband was inside, he berated the Woman for leaving. The Brother attempted to calm him down. Stating he’d call the police if he had too. Unimpressed, the Husband went on. How dare she run away! What would the neighbors think? She was embarrassing him. If she didn’t come with him right now, she was going to be in so much trouble.
The Woman said, “I’m sorry. I know. I’m listening.” She touched her brother’s arm to assure him she was alright and to protect him from her husband’s rage. She asked the Sister-in-Law to fetch her things. The Woman promised her husband they’d leave as soon as she came down.
The Sister-in-Law brought the suitcase to the Woman, and the Husband wrenched it from her. The Woman watched as a dark cloud passed over her Sister-in-Law’s face, and she silently pled for her to do nothing in response. The Sister-in-Law observed this distress and lowered her head. The resignation wasn’t what the Woman wanted, but it was the safest choice. Any protest would bring her Husband’s anger onto the Sister-in-Law next. She was no man, never someone her Husband could respect.
“Let’s go,” said the Husband. He held out his hand. Not an invitation, a demand.
“Yes, dear,” said the Woman. He grabbed her roughly, pinching her fingers.
“Wait,” said the Sister-in-Law. “I washed your clothes.”
The Husband groaned but allowed the Sister-in-Law to get the laundry. The clothes in her hands were not ones the Woman recognized. When the Sister-in-Law gave them to her, there was a weight that suggested more than just cloth. The Sister-in-Law tapped the Woman’s hand twice, unseen by the men. A message. Did you notice?
The Husband let the Woman unpack her suitcase in peace, sleepy from his outburst. He did, however, ban her from ever visiting her brother again. The Woman nodded at his pronouncement, playing with her necklace as he spoke. She placed the clothes her Sister-in-Law gave her in the top drawer of the dresser. For later.
The Woman waited for her husband to relax into a deep slumber. She delicately opened the drawer and lifted out the clothes. She unfolded them and discovered what her sister-in-law had gifted her, a hacksaw with a handle in her favorite color.
The Woman woke early and made her husband breakfast. Best to let him believe that nothing was wrong. He asked her what her plans were for the day. She told him she had an errand and needed to go to the drug store. The Husband approved. A good task for an obedient wife.
The Woman dressed in her favorite outfit, put on her favorite shoes, and left for her errands. There were only two items she needed from the drug store, a package of bandages and a bottle of iodine. The first steps of many.
She wanted a hearty meal for the work ahead. The Woman visited a nearby cafe and got a sandwich and fries. She asked for a second pickle. The woman enjoyed the crunch of the sandwich, the crispness of the fries. She deserved a sweet treat. Give her a serving of your favorite dessert.
Her errands complete, the Woman returned home. She took off her shoes at the entryway and walked upstairs barefoot. Her husband wouldn’t be home for hours. The Woman went to the bedroom for the hacksaw. She tapped the teeth of the blade. Her Sister-in-Law had not given her a dull tool.
In the bathroom, the Woman set up her equipment on the edge of the sink. The iodine. The bandages. A towel, just in case. She gripped the hacksaw. There was no other way, was there? She could run, she could hide, and the chain might never loosen. Her husband forever following. Always bringing her back.
The Woman dabbed a circle of iodine around her neck. Silly almost, to take such care before doing something so harmful. At least she wouldn’t worry about infection. The hacksaw looked clean, no rust on its metal. Her Sister-in-Law chose well. The Woman inhaled deeply. She placed the hacksaw on the towel as she made her final preparations.
She took off her other jewelry if you think she wears some. Possibly removed her glasses, a hearing aid, or a hijab. Another thing individual and private you want her to have.
If you see the Woman with long hair, she gathered it up into a bun on the top of her head. Perfect for leverage. If you see her with short hair, she practiced holding it with a controlling fist. If you see the Woman as bald, she put her fingers down one at a time across her skull. She picked up the hacksaw with her dominant hand. The bandages and towels were a reach away. She had a mirror to watch herself work. The Woman supposed all the reasonable choices had been taken from her. What were you to do when left with the unreasonable ones?
She rolled a few bandages, perfect for her to bite down on.
Where would you make the cut? Start in the back, saw into the vertebrae, get the hard part over with? Go in by the throat? In this telling, the woman chose the side. Tear into the muscles and arteries first. She would work quickly, quietly.
The Woman seized her bun/short hair/bald head and set her jaw, her tongue pushing on the bandages in her mouth. She tightened her hold on the handle and pressed the blade into her neck. Blood beaded, rolling down, and pooled in her clavicle. She dragged the hacksaw forward, the motion vibrating her teeth.
Sweat dotted her forehead. This was only the beginning. She sawed back and forth, hot pain bursting down her arm and chest. She bled. The Woman paused between strokes, blade still embedded, to blot with the towel. She gazed in the mirror as the slit in her neck transformed into a red fleshy mouth. We are all made out of meat.
Blood spurted as she hit the carotid artery. No stopping. If she fainted this would all be for nothing. Her husband finding her tomorrow on the floor all a mess. She couldn’t fail her only chance. She kept sawing, her arm straining. The blade stuck. She had reached the bone.
She pulled the hacksaw harder. Once she passed through, it was just sinew and tissue. Practically over.
She screamed. The sound muffled by the bandages. Everything tasted of salt. Sweat on her upper lip. Blood weeping from her nose. Clots sliding down her throat. Her stomach would be full at the end. Teeth rattling with each pull. Little teeth of the blade doing their sacred job. The wet hush of rip, rip, rip. She wanted to vomit.
The Woman tilted her head. She was halfway. Her vertebra cracked with a sharp yank. A dark sheen of blood had spread over her skin and clothes. Blood under her nails. Blood between her fingers. Blood crusted on the necklace chain. She swallowed another clot, guts heaving. Don’t vomit. You can’t vomit anymore. More flesh and bone came apart, sounding like an orange section torn from the others.
Her exposed windpipe gulped like a fish mouth. No more breathing through her nose. This was how she breathed now. Her insides were rings of organs and vessels and bone. She squeezed her bun/short hair/bald head. No dropping things and ruining her hard work. She had to be careful. Pay attention.
The Woman’s arm ached. Fingers long gone numb. Her knees locked and she wobbled. No.
She was so close. Her muscles tensed in anticipation, heart beating faster. The pain was transforming into elation. She was on the edge of freedom. Joy. The Woman’s head was completely slanted. She had made her cuts so level, right on the line of iodine. No one was there to see she’d done such a good job. The shred of the saw didn’t bother her anymore. Just a few more slices. One last snip of skin and oh—
She came undone.
The hacksaw fell to the floor. The Woman held her head under the chin, clutching it in the crook of her arm. There was no sound of laughter, yet her body shook, air wheezing out of her windpipe. She took the bandages from her mouth and wiped her lips. She knew where to touch despite this new distance. A trembling slick hand reached up and removed the necklace from her stump of neck.
Going down the stairs was a bit tricky. The Woman’s balance was poor, from fatigue and the off-center weight of her head. She left the necklace on the kitchen table. A bloody handprint dragged onto the white tablecloth. A perfect final message to her husband.
She would go to her brother’s. Maybe her sister-in-law could sew her head back on. She had steady hands and sharp needles. Do I know if the Woman was able to do this? To heal? I don’t. I end the story with this. The Woman stroked her decapitated head like a mother does a child and stumbled out of her house and into the sunshine.
