I break the surface, the freezing water hitting me like an iceberg. I push forward, legs kicking, tension slipping away with every stroke. My lungs burn, but I drag the water behind me, stroke after stroke. Here, I am free. Nothing can touch me. It’s just me and the water.
I surface with a gasp, reaching the side of the pool—or maybe I don’t. For a moment, I can’t tell if I’m still under, lungs burning, or if I’ve truly come up for air.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The calm shatters with six words. My eyes climb from polished black brogues to his perfectly carved face. Not a strand of his dark hair is out of place. He scowls down at me, disgust twisting his features.
“I asked what you were doing,” he spits.
“I was swimming,” I whisper, already searching for the hidden landmine in his voice. A memory flickers from last week—him saying something about work—but the details blur, slippery as water.
“I told you I had to leave early today. Ten minutes until I go. No breakfast. No lunch in the fridge. I had to polish my own shoes.” His tone is calm, deliberate, each word dipped in venom. Or maybe it’s just the echo in my head. I’ve heard the same accusations so many times they repeat on their own.
“So, I was forced to tend to my own needs while my idiotic wife decided to play mermaid instead of doing her duty.”
He crouches at the pool’s edge, eyes locking on mine. I drop my gaze, shivering. Those eyes are a pit, a black chasm. Cold. Endless.
“I’m sorry, I forgot, I—”
The water smashes over me before I can finish. His hand presses me down, iron on the back of my head. I thrash, panic clawing through me, lungs convulsing. Just as blackness creeps in, he yanks me up by the hair and drags me over the tiles, tossing me aside like waste.
I cough, splutter, clutching my hand to my scalp to ease the pain ripping through me. Last time he did this, it took months for the bald patch to grow back. Months of meticulously planning my hair style to cover up the destruction.
“Look at me. I’m soaked,” he hisses through clenched teeth. He shoves me back into the water with his foot.
“Worthless,” he mutters, disappearing into the house.
I huddle in the pool’s corner, watching the open door, listening for the roar of his car. Only when I hear it do I climb out, wincing, I wrap myself in a towel, seeking comfort. My chest feels cracked, my head a storm, I tremble as I slip into the house.
Inside, I trail my fingers along shelves of ornaments and photos. Nothing means anything. This isn’t my house. It’s his. I am just another piece of décor. Another toy for him to misuse.
In the bedroom I stop cold. My clothes, shoes, jewellery—all dumped across the bed, dripping wet. Water bleeds into the carpet like black veins. On the ottoman sits a note, ink bleeding into the paper. Let’s see how you like wearing wet clothes, you bitch.
For a moment I blink, and the note isn’t there. Only silence. But when I blink again, it sits waiting.
Later, while scrubbing the mess, the doorbell rings. My stomach knots. A voice calls through the letterbox.
“Hello? Come to fix the washer. Mr. Nixon booked me in.”
On the ring camera: a man in jeans and a football shirt, black duffel at his feet, “Gary’s Plumbing Services” stamped on the van behind him.
I hesitate. Ignore him? Answer? Either way, I’ll pay tonight. With a sigh, I unlock the door. The man grins, yellow teeth beneath a grey moustache.
“Thanks, love. Thought I’d wasted a trip. Place is hard to find, eh?” He states too loudly.
“Utility room,” I murmur, leading him through. He chats the whole way. I don’t reply. It’s been years since I’ve been alone with anyone but Richard. My skin itches.
“Any chance of a cuppa? Milk, two sugars.”
He sips his tea too loudly, smacking his lips. “Funny one, your husband,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“Called me up just this morning, very insistent that I come today,” with a chuckle he says. “I had to cancel another job, but he’s paying me double plus petrol money, so it was worth it.”
My breath catches, I stumble from the room, I ignore the plumbers concern and rush to the bathroom. It was a test. And I know this evening will be a nightmare.
Later, when I clear the kitchen, there’s only one cup in the sink.
When Richard’s car crunches up the drive, the house gleams. I pour his whisky: tumbler spotless, three ice cubes, two fingers.
He takes the glass, and with the other hand offers a folded slip of paper. “Something to tell me?”
I freeze. His hand is empty—or maybe not. For a moment I see paper, then nothing. His breath warms the back of my neck.
I asked you a question,” he says softly. Too softly.
I turn, lips parting—
The glass smashes into my face. Blood trickles down my cheek. I stumble back into the worktop. Too stunned to react.
“What did I tell you about letting people into my house?” His snarl sprays spittle across my skin.
“He was a repairman for the washing machine, you booked—”
My words are cut off as he grabs my hair and pulls my head back. Still sore for this morning I cry out and he smiles before he slams my face into the counter. Stars explode inside my head, I instantly feel woozy. His pins me to the counter, his body weight unyielding. His voice is a torrent of hate.
“You’re a useless dirty whore,” my cheek burns as he licks a hot wet tongue from jaw to temple. “Did you think I wouldn’t know?”
I lie still refusing to cry. I’ve learnt that my suffering only feeds him. This will never end. I will rot in this cycle. Unless—
Panting, trembling, I straddle him, arm aching, vision blurred. I keep swinging until my body gives out. The silence that follows is thicker than any scream.
I stare down at him—husband, tormentor, master—finally broken.
Or maybe not. His chest is still, or maybe it isn’t. My vision swims. The tiles shift beneath me, slick with blood… or is it just water from the pool?
Sliding off, I crawl to the phone, pulling it from the wall. My hand is steady as I dial.
“Hello. I’ve just murdered my husband.” My voice is clear. Too calm.
But the line hums empty. Did I ever call? Did I even pick up the receiver?
The phone lies in my lap, silent. The house, silent. My own breath, silent.
I smile, though I don’t know if it’s because he’s gone—or because he never will be.
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