She's upstairs, working away. He's downstairs, doing something. An idyllic situation that, save for one small problem that only can get worse.

Inspired by  duroc and the Thursday Prompt.

oOo

Dim red light barely illuminates the small room. Ten-by-eight prints hang limply from clothes pegs attached to a cord strung across the ceiling. On the nearby shelves, the last few yellow chemical tins sit neatly in their cardboard packing cases, as a warm vinegary scent wafts up from the fixer tray and its heating pad. The acidic vapours force her to mouth-breathe in a panting style she considers vaguely vulgar. The thought makes her shiver. He breathes just like this nowadays.

Upon one of the pair of workbenches, a complicated gadget: a camera in reverse. The enlarger. Their enlarger. His former pride and joy, with its winding cogs and precious lenses. She gently runs her finger over the bellows, recalling a time when he was here for hours at a time, to emerge blinking into the light with a wide grin, to proudly display his latest landscape, a charming urban scene, or happy newly-weds beaming at the camera.

In the silence, she can hear him moving around downstairs. Heaven only knows what he’s doing. Cleaning up, or perhaps making a snack … or his anger at his growing inabilities might be welling up again. She lost track of time in here, for it is hard to judge the hour in the absence of daylight. A window once existed behind the enlarger — she recalls the old layout of the room. And why not, for it recalls happy days of childhood, with sunshine patterns, lozenges of colour cast from glass windows, and buzzing flies looking for escape. There were no black-painted walls and lightproof panels in those far-off happy, golden days.

He climbs the stair slowly, the third step complaining with a squeak under his growing weight. He grunts as he moves, unable to help himself.

She faces the door, a frown on her brow. Perhaps he might be calm and gentle today. It is always hard to judge … and impossible to anticipate. He could lose his temper at the slightest provocation and explode with anger. He is more volatile than any chemical, yellow tin or not.

She draws a deep breath to steady her nerves and fights a sudden fume-induced cough. A polite knock on the door. Muffled, though insistent. So like him, for he is still a gentleman despite it all.

She tosses her hair back and draws herself upright; an attempt to project that air of confidence he first found so attractive in her. One last careful look around the room — as he had insisted she always do, over and over — then she throws the light switch. The flickery old fluorescent tube sparks to life noisily while, out in the hallway, the warning lamp quenches. She unlocks the door and swings it open. Daylight and fresher air streams in from the hall and he steps inside, snuffling as he moves over the threshold of the room. In his paw lies a roughly-made sandwich on a plate. He gives her an encouraging half-smile that reveals his horrid yellowing fangs. For a heartbeat, she recalls his strong hand, once-striking smile and his handsome jaw. All a memory now, lost forever behind plush grey fur, black claws on misshapen paws, vicious canines and bright orange eyes.

“I made you a sammidge,” he slurs proudly through the disfigurement of his muzzle. He tries to lighten her mood as he continues, “an’ you better not bitch abou’ any dog hairs in’d. Is ham an’ relish.”

She takes the plate and turns her back on him for a moment to place it softly upon the workbench. Her expression only wavers a fraction, but he has already sensed it.

“I don’ have to see yer face. I can smell yer thoughts,” he whispers.

Oh, damn it all! She hitches her face back up that one notch and turns back to him, smiling sweetly. Through sheer force of will, she hugs his squat, powerful body, even though the mere thought of his bestial features makes her shudder. A touch: she passes her fingertips over the ruff on his cheek as tenderly as she did to the bellows only moments before, thanks him for his efforts, then brightly suggests he check the fresh prints hanging to dry on the line while she washes her hands. She eases uncomfortably past his furry body and hurries down the stairs to their bathroom.

He stands there quietly, nose twitching, shoulders stooped, ears flat, and cranes his neck up, an uncomfortable pose for him, to inspect the hanging prints. They tell a tale in twelve images: a man’s face becoming that of a beast.

As she locks the bathroom door and presses her back against it, her face contorts and the tears start. Her reflection in the mirror dissolves into lines and streaks. To lose the one you love … trapped in his own frame … a disgusting animal … hating what he is becoming … and she must be brave? For what? For whom? She can’t deal with it all for much longer. He’s become an animal … an animal … a beast. He will not remain lucid for long more. The day will come when he will be unable to think for himself. Then, like too many good wives, she will be left alone — alone with an insanely loyal, massive, vicious house pet, and distant, tainted memories of her true love frozen in time on black-and-white prints created by their own hands, in the place that was supposed to be their happy home forever. She loses her composure and pounds the mirror with her fists, pouring out her desperation.

Back upstairs, he hears her and lowers his head. Alone in the darkroom, he closes the door softly and turns off the light.

oOo