The Hunting Wives

by May Cobb

As it turns out, you can’t outrun who you are. My darker urges simply followed me here and are even more amplified because it’s so quiet, and sometimes so boring.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH me? Why can’t I be content with normal, quiet, lovely things? I mean, I am happy; there’s part of me that is fulfilled by all of this, but obviously, there’s another part that is decidedly not. I feel terrible even having these feelings;

I sometimes catch myself staring at Graham, at his open happiness and fulfillment with family life, and find myself envious of how uncomplicated, how simple his needs seem to be. I’m tired of being the complicated one.