TRYPALL – (n) tall, lanky, slovenly person

Phylis stood by the window with her back to him, the glass barrier open to the world and her bare frame. The towel she had around her body earlier was dropped around her feet in a puddle. Zakaree could only sit with his back to the wooden door at the other end of the room, the only safe exit, and watch. Something in his heart was telling him to approach her, to comfort her, but he knew better. The still bleeding cut along his bulked forearm was warning enough, although he didn't feel a thing.

"Baby," he grunted, his throat raw and still trying to adjust to his formation.

She hissed loudly at him, but didn't move any other muscles. He stared at her pale skin, the perfect curvature that outlined everything he loved about his wife. If she weren't so pissed at the world, and at him, he was almost positive that they would be staining the bedsheets.

They stayed like that for another twenty minutes before he got up to go into the adjacent room. The door creaked but he left it open, to hear her before he saw her. The room was bathed in the smell of food, some of his favorites: bratwursts, fried chicken, and steak. Medium-rare steaks that were still so juicy, with that pink center and the slightest dollop of blood…his stomach demanded sustenance. But he calmed himself and went about his task.

Jennifer was laying on her side on the living room couch, sweat dotting her forehead as she tried to relax. A pool of vomit was right over the side of the couch, the smell having dissipated with time. He reached into a nearby bucket of melting ice for a towel to wipe her face with. She shivered at the cold item, but visibly relaxed. Her broken leg was healing nicely, and her concussion was fading with each passing day. Sometimes, she would wake up and he could hear her wandering inside, looking for food or a pencil and paper.

Phylis and Zakaree silently agreed that they wouldn't come in contact with their companion. At least, physically. The door only locked and unlocked from their side of the room, and her sleep schedule had always been predictable. They left her gifts, some of her favorite things when they could find them. It wasn't closure, but it was a close as they could come.

Zakaree went back into the room and noticed that his thin wife was facing him. He stared at her deformed figure stoically. Her jaw was slowly melting away, showing more of her pearly white teeth and her cheekbones than she would like. Her stomach was distended as if she as with child, which he sincerely hoped was true. He loved having her pregnant as much as he did getting her that way.

Her breasts had grown to touch her stomach, one of his old shirts just barely covering the enlargement. She curled her long, chewed-down fingers into fists as the first tear danced down her face.

Zakaree finally spoke. "Baby—"

"Don't 'baby' me!" she screamed, saliva spewing out at him. "Look at me! I'm a monster! A fucking monster! I'm hideous, I can't even talk without spitting everywhere and my nails are filthy! How can you look at me and say you still love me?"

He stared at her. He knew better than to talk. With his luck, he's say something that would set her off and then an already bad day would turn to complete hell.

So, instead, he walked up to her and kissed her softly, pulling her body as close as he could with his one good arm. He pushed back after a minute and got down on one knee to be eye level with her.

"'Til death do us part'. Remember that?"

She sniffled and went to yell about something else when he drew a thick finger over the crook of her left arm with a feather-like touch. Her big brown eyes flickered closed as she forced away an embarrassing moan. Her pale cheeks flushed a bright pink as he continued.

"I love you. Always have. This doesn't change a damn thing. I still want a family with you. A big one. I want us to be happy together. So stop talking."

Zakaree kissed his wife hard, pushing her back onto their bed. If words didn't prove his point, he knew what will.