King Midas

You were so happy at first. I thought, “you deserve this, you’ve struggled for so long.” Then I started to notice people dying in the streets. I started to throw up because of my guilt. I wish you cared. No, I wish you never won the lottery. No, I wish you were still human. I’m not sure what to call you. The changes started as my worry did: subtle, slowly creeping up.

It was a Tuesday, I remember this very well. You were crying, calling your mom to share the news. When you called your dad it was more to rub it in, more cruel. We both knew this from the empty response on his end. You were too high on endorphins to care. I was proud when you bought only what you needed. The TV interview started my questioning. I had never seen you that fancy. You were wearing a brand new tuxedo and shoes. You looked so handsome to me then, before your eyes bugged out and you couldn’t walk.

Your childhood friends drove hours. One by one their tarnished cars rolled up our driveway. It was three weeks after the interview. We had moved into a house much too big for us. The contrast was painfully obvious. Five old best friends you shared decades with. One had four kids. Am I selfish for being jealous of that? They lived in that van and you gave them nothing. I guess it is your money. But how could you not give them anything? They surrounded all your earliest memories. I saw so much of them in you. I viewed you differently after that. How is it fair I’ve known you for a fourth of what they have and I get to bask in your winnings.

My favorite room of the house was the garage. Light flooded in on most days, speckling my canvases with silhouettes of leaves. As long as I lived in that house I never went a week without visiting that room. It kept me sane, as sane as I could be.

You quit your job almost immediately. Your lack of routine was obvious. You didn’t have goals anymore. Any motivation was replaced with new possibilities. You had a lifetime to fill. A silence formed between us.

I noticed the kindness draining from your eyes. You so easily ignored every begging hand you passed. You had once given bread to every homeless man you saw. Knowing we would share a pack of crackers for dinner. I remember thinking, “I know you. I love you, and I’ll love all versions.” I couldn’t picture then, the wilting statue before me.

Your eyes were so dull and glazed over six weeks after winning that I had to sleep on the couch. I couldn’t sleep next to you anymore. You felt like a stranger.

I noticed you were hiding something a few days after I started thinking about moving out. I caught glances through doorways and bathroom mirrors. It started with a slight golden shine. Somehow you covered up perfectly for guests, not that we had many. I started to doubt my judgment. Especially when I heard the occasional metal on metal clank.

Our house was almost completely empty. Sometimes I would sit and imagine a beautifully bright reading nook, us sitting, talking, laughing, unchanged. We wanted kids at one point. We would’ve been great parents. So loving. We dreamed of having a big house for them to run around. Enough money that we’d only spend on them, on lunches and new clothes. The world would be so open to them, and they would know it. When I think of those times it’s like I’m thinking of two other people living it. I can’t help being so frustrated. We got what we needed. They would have every opportunity. We could pay for the best colleges now.

Sometimes I would catch myself in the garage talking to the daughter I didn't have. Teaching her how to shade and how to sketch a good nose.

Six months after the TV interview I noticed just how much of you was gone. I was the only one to notice this, so I really doubt what I may be saying. There was so much of me gone, I started covering mirrors. I couldn’t watch myself age and waste away.

Here is how I remember the changes, physically I mean. It started in your hands. It spread like a virus. Climbing and contaminating. You became bedridden when it hit your legs. I remember you trying to walk once. Not in front of me, of course. I started bringing soup to your bedside. There was no exchange of words, no glances.

I started praying then. Praying your transformation would stop, or I would stop hallucinating. I started to avoid you. It was easy. Two people in such a big home. If I didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t feel so empty and cold.

It was almost a year after the TV interview. I was complacent, submissive to a life I didn’t want. It was winter, a snowy winter. Something I would have loved to share with a family. I was reminded of a story my father used to tell me. King Midas. I pictured myself telling you this story, the cruel irony making us both laugh. With each other. Maybe I was delusional, maybe I was hopeful. I could take care of you. We could feel warm again. I miss you.

You weren’t responding, maybe I should've taken that as a hint. But I continued. I’m not sure I could’ve stopped myself.

Finishing the story, I said, “I’m rambling on about King Midas to the man of gold.” It was funny in a cold, vicious way. You were still. Every part of you was numb and vacant. I cried. I cried for the life that I let slip out from under me. I could never have kids now. I could never teach them how to marry the right person and how to leave, for yourself.