A few months after Al moved back in with me, we slipped into a routine — if you can call it that. His schizophrenic behavior was becoming more present, more obvious, more impossible to ignore. I made excuses for him and cleaned up the mess. That was my role, and I played it well. He was teaching me how to cope, and somehow I was grateful. Looking back, that’s an oxymoron so big it should be studied. What the hell was I thinking.
As his issues became harder to hide from coworkers and anyone in our orbit, he did what anyone in his situation would do — he ran. And he took me with him. New state, new jobs, new friends, new routine. A fresh start, supposedly. We left his screw‑ups behind like they were old furniture. I knew he was getting worse, but I brushed it off. I thought I had it under control. Too bad I didn’t understand what control actually looks like.
The problems hit daily. Issues at work. Issues with coworkers. Issues with neighbors. Always something. His brilliant solution? “Let’s get a dog.” Because apparently a pet would soothe his stress. Fantastic. Another living thing for me to take care of. I wasn’t excited, but I went along with it — grateful for any distraction from the chaos.
Then the calls started. Constant calls. My boss warned me more than once to limit them. Al was having similar issues at his job — no focus, constant sick days, dramatic ailments. At one point he was convinced he had a brain tumor. That was his explanation for everything. Fate nudged me one day and I lost my job. Too many personal issues bleeding into work. Perfect. Now I had to find something fast because the apartment cost a fortune and required both our incomes.
We were fighting by then. I was fed up and finally pushing back against his bullying. I lost more often than not. After one particularly brutal argument, I woke up to find him gone. His car wasn’t in the driveway. It was only 6 a.m., so I figured he was driving around to cool off.
The dog was gone too.
It didn’t hit me as a problem until the day dragged on with no sign of either of them. My calls went straight to voicemail. He was hiding from me. I shook off the feeling that something was wrong — denial was practically my religion at that point — and went through his things. Clothes still there. Suitcase still in the closet. Toothbrush still by the sink.
But every razor was gone. His. Mine. All of them.
That’s when the dread finally cracked through.
Days passed. Nothing. I reached out to his family again, but this time they were done. They’d helped once before and I’d taken him back. “He’s your problem now,” they said. “Let us know when he shows up.”
A week went by. Then two. I was beside myself. I didn’t know where he’d go — he had almost no friends left. I missed him. I missed the chaos. I missed the temper, the moods, the noise. And I missed our dog. I hoped he was taking care of her.
Three weeks later, I got the call.
His brother had found him. In Maryland. We had no ties there. No reason for him to go.
Then came the story.
He had tried to hang himself inside a hospital emergency room.
I felt the blood drain out of me. Before I could even process that, his brother told me they’d found the car. Inside was our dog.
She hadn’t survived.
Al claimed he’d parked the car and gone for a walk, then couldn’t find it again. A snowstorm had hit. The details were vague. The logic nonexistent. He was being held after the suicide attempt, and no one knew for how long.
I was left with more questions than answers. Why Maryland? Why the razors? Why take the dog? Nothing made sense — but nothing around him ever did.
I was buried under the red flags. And I couldn’t dig my way out.
Plot twist: I signed up for another round,
K,
