But the answer to your question is, “Yes. Yes, I did totally get stabbed in the face by a serial killer. Sort of.” Which is exactly what I told all the people at the party. Then Victor almost divorced me. And what’s really tragic here is that technically this is sort of Victor’s fault, because at this point I was prepared to just tell everyone I was drunk and then go hide in the bathroom, but Victor decided to tell everyone I was drunk first and then I got too irritated at him to be worried about talking in front of strangers, because clearly he wasn’t taking my being stabbed in the face seriously. Victor then pointed out that that was because it wasn’t entirely true that I’d been stabbed in the face by a serial killer, and he did have a point, but by then everyone was a little riveted and intrigued. Also, none of them had ever seen the horror ride that my dinner party conversations take, so instead of agreeing with Victor’s suggestion that I go lie down, they demanded that I tell the story. Those people were fucked.
I realized almost immediately that this was a mistake, but I figured I could still salvage this situation, so I took a deep breath and explained that I had simply fallen asleep watching a documentary about serial killers, and that it must’ve stuck with me, because I started having this dream where I was getting chased by the Night Stalker, who was wielding a large knife, and AND HE STABBED ME IN THE FUCKING FACE. And the pain in my face got hotter and sharper, and all of a sudden I started screaming, and that’s when I woke myself up and realized that it was all just a dream.
This is where people always laugh politely. Coincidentally, it’s also where I should stop telling this story. I’ll try to remember that for next time. But, of course, I didn’t stop there, because my internal censor was still seven seconds behind and she was too busy freaking out about the fact that I’d just said the F-word out loud to tell me to shut up now.
So I leaned forward conspiratorially, saying to the relieved crowd, “But then I kept hearing screaming and it turns out it was me screaming, because I ACTUALLY HAD BEEN STABBED IN THE FACE.”
This was when everyone stopped laughing and Victor began looking physically ill. It was also when I started to panic and I began speaking way too quickly so that I could finish and run away.
“So then Victor wakes up and sees my face covered in blood and is all, ‘WHAT THE FUCK?!’” I related to the group of awestruck bystanders. “And I’m like, ‘I KNOW, RIGHT? THE NIGHT STALKER STABBED ME!’ and right then Victor jumps up and unsheathes his sword and runs down the hall brandishing his sword after the Night Stalker, which was weird, because the documentary had said he was still in jail, but I guess when you wake up and your wife’s been stabbed you probably aren’t thinking terribly straight, and personally I was just impressed at how quickly he’d unsheathed his sword to run down the hall after a dangerous serial kill—”
Victor interrupted me: “Please, for the love of God, stop talking.”
I looked at him curiously and wondered what part of the story he was most appalled by, and then quickly clarified, “Oh! When I said he ‘unsheathed his sword,’ I didn’t mean his penis, y’all. I was referring to the samurai sword we keep next to the bed. Victor wasn’t running down the hall waving his penis at a serial killer. I mean, that would be ridiculous.” I laughed. No one else laughed.
“Aaaanyway,” I continued, “Victor searched through the house, but no one was there but us, and all the doors were still locked. Victor tried to convince me that I must have accidentally scratched myself, but I was doubtful. Then the next day at work my coworkers assumed that Victor must be battering me, and so I explained the serial-killer dreams, and of course none of them believed me, which is pretty insulting actually, because I can assure you, if my husband had actually stabbed me in the face I’d have enough sense to come up with a better story than one about a serial killer attacking me in my dreams.”
This is the point where I really, really want to stop talking, but I couldn’t because I was so freaked out at how badly this whole thing had gone that I was desperate to find an end and was too panicked to do it correctly. I vaguely wished that Victor would set fire to the house to distract everyone, but he didn’t, because Victor is very unhelpful.