It was also about to be replaced with something that would turn her recovery process into a whole new level of hell. I unscrewed the cap and emptied the contents into the sink, then refilled the tube with capsaicin cream, the stuff they use to treat arthritis pain, the same active ingredient that makes pepper spray so effective. It looked identical to the original ointment. Same color, same consistency.
But when Marissa applied it to her tender areas tomorrow morning, she was going to discover that some mistakes have consequences that just keep on giving. I put the tube back exactly where I'd found it and headed to bed. Phase Three was locked and loaded. You know that moment in horror movies when the victim finally realizes they're not dealing with a random accident, but with someone who's been planning their demise all along?
Well, I got to witness that exact moment in real time. And let me tell you, it was more satisfying than a perfectly aged scotch on a cold winter night. It started around 6:00 a.m. with a scream that could have woken the dead. Not just any scream.
This was the kind of primal, gut-wrenching shriek that comes from someone who's just discovered that their day is about to go from bad to please-kill-me-now. It came from our bathroom, followed immediately by what sounded like someone trying to put out a fire with their bare hands. I was already awake, of course. Had been for about an hour, lying in our guest bed, listening for the exact moment when Marissa would apply what she thought was soothing recovery ointment to her already traumatized anatomy.
The anticipation had been killing me, like waiting for the finale of the world's most twisted reality show. "Jesus Christ!" she screamed, and I heard something crash in the bathroom. Probably the tube of ointment hitting the tile floor as she realized that what was supposed to heal her was instead setting her on fire from the inside out. I gave it exactly 10 seconds, long enough for the capsaicin to really get to work, but not so long that she'd start to suspect I wasn't coming to help, before I jumped out of bed and ran toward the bathroom like the concerned husband I was pretending to be.
"Marissa, what's wrong?" I called through the door, which was locked. Smart woman. She'd developed trust issues about people seeing her in vulnerable positions. Wonder why that might be.
"Something's wrong with the medicine," she gasped between what sounded like hyperventilating. "It's burning. Oh God, it's burning." "What medicine?"
"The ointment from the hospital. Yes. No. I don't know. Make it stop."
I could hear water running, which meant she was probably trying to rinse off the cream. Unfortunately for her, the substance was oil-based, which meant water just spread it around. It was like trying to put out a grease fire with a garden hose. You're just making the problem worse.
"Honey, open the door. Let me help you." The lock clicked, and the door swung open to reveal a scene that would have been hilarious if it wasn't so perfectly orchestrated. Marissa was bent over the sink, splashing water on herself with the desperation of someone trying to escape hell. Her face was red and streaked with tears.