Underwater Silence

I woke up thirsty in the dead of night, reaching for the empty space beside me. It was 3 a.m., and my wife wasn’t in bed. A chill crawled up my spine as I listened for any sign of her. She was always asleep by 1 a.m., after indulging in her nightly ritual—a long bath with a glass of wine. But tonight, the silence felt sinister. Something didn't feel the same.
Heart pounding, I crept towards the bathroom, the soft glow of the light spilling into the dark hallway. The door was ajar, and I nudged it open, fearing what I might find. My breath hitched as I saw her, submerged in the bathtub, her hair a halo of floating strands on top of her tiny skull. The wine glass lay shattered on the floor, the crimson liquid seeping into the tiles like blood.
“No,” I whispered, the word barely escaping my lips. I plunged my hands into the water, pulling her limp body from the tub. Her skin was cold, her lips tinged with blue. Desperation clawed at me as I fumbled to call for help, my shaking fingers barely managing to dial.
“Emergency services,” a calm voice answered, oblivious to the horror in my voice. “My wife... she drowned,” I choked out, the words feeling foreign and wrong. The operator remained maddeningly composed, (which annoyed me, i must admit.) as I cradled her lifeless body, time stretching into an eternity.
The paramedics arrived quickly, their faces impassive as they checked her vitals. One of them glanced at me, a pitying look in his eyes as he delivered the verdict. “I’m sorry. She’s gone.”
Gone.
The word echoed in my mind as I stared at the shell of the woman I once knew, now reduced to a tragic accident. I was numb, the sadness too overwhelming to process. Later that day, family and friends filled the house, their voices low and somber as they shared memories of her—how she loved her baths, how she always seemed at peace with a glass of wine and a book.
I forced a smile as I stood among the mourners, their words of sympathy washing over me. My grief was raw and visible, and they all believed it. They patted my back, offered their condolences, and spoke of how tragic it all was—how sudden and unexpected her passing had been.
I nodded along, letting a tear slip down my cheek as I recalled the moments we shared. The way she laughed, the way she made our house a home. They said she was too young, that she had so much life ahead of her. I agreed, holding onto the pain that welled up inside me, letting it show in my eyes.
They didn’t notice the wine glass I left on the counter or the faint scent of lavender that still lingered in the air. They didn’t question the small details of that night—the way she seemed more tired than usual, how she didn’t fight when she slipped beneath the bathwater.
As the crowd began to thin, I stood by the door, shaking hands and accepting their final words of comfort. They all believed I was heartbroken, that I was a man shattered by loss.
But as the last guest left and I closed the door behind them, a small, sinister smirk curled at the corner of my lips. Truth be told, I had planned it all perfectly.
She would never be a burden on me again.