My wife’s devotion to the church was all-consuming. She immersed herself in the lives of Saints and Mystics, devouring their stories with fervent zeal. I, on the other hand, found them to be strange. How could someone preach after being decapitated? Or bear the wounds of Christ on their own hands and feet? Such tales seemed more like twisted fantasies than holy miracles. My wife had a collection of pictures depicting individuals who supposedly received the stigmata - physical marks resembling those of Jesus’ crucifixion. Images that made my skin crawl with unease. But to her, they were a source of inspiration and faith. She would insist that I didn’t understand, but I did. As her obsession with these holy figures grew, so did my discomfort. She went from a mere admirer to a zealous fanatic, fixated on every detail of their lives - even the bizarre and unsettling ones such as Saint Cathrine of Siena who ate pus oozing from the body of a dying woman and Saint Cathrine also would refuse to eat, or Saint Macarius who would go days without sleeping. Some saints are said to have had the ability to fly. It was as if my wife had fallen under some dark spell, worshipping these supposed embodiments of divinity with frightening devotion. It was during this time that my wife became obsessed with both Saint Elmo and Saint Bonaventure.
It may sound strange or bizarre, but there is a patron saint for almost everything, including shitting. During this time, my wife developed an unusual obsession with shitting. She became convinced that every time she took a shit, someone would die. She even gave examples of people who had passed away after she had gone to the bathroom. As a result, she stopped going altogether because she believed God was calling her to live without shitting. I love my wife dearly, and I tried to reassure her that if it indeed were God’s will for her not to go to the bathroom, He would sustain her just like He did for St. Cathrine and St. Therese Neumann, who was able to survive without sleep and food while remaining plump. It broke my heart to see my wife this way.
However, unlike those saints, my wife only grew weaker and sicker. Her appearance became pale and gaunt, and she smelled like rotten eggs. Yet, through all this suffering, she would still smile weakly and tell me about other saints who had suffered for their faith in God. It broke my heart to see my wife in such a state, but I didn’t know how to help her.
Then, one day, an old school friend named Sarah visited us. We caught up on everything we had missed over the years and shared personal stories. Sarah was my wife’s best friend from school. Sarah was the type of person who seemed like she was everybody’s sister and someone people usually described as a “nice” girl—the day that Sarah visited my wife out of the blue made my wife so happy. They drank coffee and talked for what seemed like hours. The coffee triggered something in my wife, and she had to take a big shit. My wife excused herself, and while she was shitting, she heard a gunshot. My wife leaped off the porcelain throne and ran into the living room to see what had happened. Sarah had shot herself right in the face in the middle of the living room. Why would someone not visit for years, only to come to your home and kill themselves, while you were shitting?
That was the shot that changed my wife’s life because, after that incident, freak accidents began to happen to both strangers and friends alike whenever my wife would take a dump. I don’t even want to tell you what happened when she had a turd hung sideways. And that is when the fear set in, and my wife began to think of ways to prevent herself from shitting. My wife associated death with her ass, and I hate to admit that sometimes her ass smelled like a sewer.
For days, my wife refused to use the bathroom. She was convinced that her bowel movements were causing people to die and go to hell. I watched as she took extreme measures to avoid going to the bathroom - fasting, taking medications, eating foods that would clog her up. But it all began to take a toll on her mental and physical health. Her once bright appearance faded, and her face was constantly strained with worry. I suggested therapy, but she adamantly refused. Instead, she turned to prayer for help. But as the days went by, a distinct odor began to emanate from her - like she was holding in all of her shit and it was seeping out of her pores. It was a putrid sulfur smell, unlike anything I had ever encountered before. The closest comparison I could make was as if one of those zombies from the show The Walking Dead had crawled up her ass and died. The stench was so unbearable that I would sneak into the bathroom at night to vomit.
Tears streamed down my face as I thought about how things used to be. When we first met, that woman had a fire in her eyes and volunteered for hurricane relief efforts. But now, she seemed completely different, almost like someone you would see on a weird Netflix or Max documentary. We were at the hospital, and I was holding her hand tightly as they tried to rehydrate her. My wife begged me not to let them make her take a shit, but the doctor said it was necessary for her survival.
Dr. Stout said she had more willpower than anyone he had ever met. He said he had never smelled a stench like my wife’s ass, and for the love of humanity and to make the world a better place, she needed to wash that ass as soon as I got her back home. Despite his tears, the doctor said he had to do what needed to be done and inserted two fingers into my wife’s pucker hole.
Suddenly, he let out a scream and pulled back his hand, revealing an eye looking back at us from inside my wife’s asshole. Doctor Stout yelled, “I smell eggs! I smell eggs!” as he passed out onto the floor. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Why was there an eye in my wife’s asshole? Doctor Stout lay bleeding on the floor minus two fingers.
The paint on the hospital room walls was peeling off, overwhelmed by the unbearable stench that filled the room. Before I could understand what was happening, nurses and paramedics rushed in, only to collapse to the ground as soon as they entered. The smell was so strong that it made them foam at the mouth and shake uncontrollably. Their eyes rolled back, and some even turned white as they succumbed to the fumes. In a state of shock, I looked over and saw something wriggling out of my wife’s body. It wasn’t dead; it was a pale-faced man who reeked of death. He emerged from her ass like a snake, covered in maggots and ringworms.
He stood before me with an evil grin, transforming into a grotesque figure with multiple chins and stained skin. His yellow teeth were full of cobwebs.
“My life is shit. I live off shit.” Said the pale-faced man as he spoke in a demoniac voice.
Frozen with fear, I didn’t know what to do. My wife opened her eyes and said, “My bowels are fire. My movement is fire. My water is fire. I am fire, now, hear me roar!”
Paralyzed with terror, I watched in horror as my wife unleashed a primal scream. In an instant, the room was engulfed in searing heat, and the stench of sulfur gave way to thick smoke and burning ash. I no longer smelled a stench, but I smelled burnt matches.
The pale man’s face contorted from menacing to pure panic as his body melted from the heat, and he dissolved into nothingness. My wife rose to her feet, now radiating an aura of roses and love instead of fear and stress.
She said, “How do you feel?”
I said, “Like a need to take a shit.”
We both laughed, hugged, and kissed.
We fled the nightmarish scene, desperate to leave it behind us forever. The first thing my wife did when she got home was wash her ass. We lived happily ever after and never saw the pale-faced man again.
Well this was interesting to say the least . Never thought of bowel movements that way and hope I never do . What and awesome horror writer you are . Big creative imagination . Can’t wait for more stories .