I enjoy washing the dishes. It’s one of the more soothing chores I do. Think about it: you’re all alone with nothing else but your thoughts, maybe a slight hum from the football game on TV accompanying your solitude, and you just scrub. That’s it. No complicated work issue that you have to think through, no spousal argument that keeps you up at night, no family health crisis that makes you think about death. It’s just you and a sponge, scrubbing away all the day’s issues. That’s exactly why I love doing them.  

       Truth be told, my wife and I haven’t been on the greatest of terms, so who can blame me for wanting a bit of an escape from madness? I’ve never been too confrontational, and I must admit that this same character trait has been the recent incitement of our issues. After my wife lost her job (downsizing, that’s how they put it), she’s been more on edge than ever, worried about how to pay bills, how to stay healthy, how to get through the day without completely breaking down. She’s been looking to me as an outlet, but I’m just not the one to do that. “Everything will work out,” I’d always say, thinking that’d be a great response. “Damn it, Jason. What if it won’t?” she’d reply, and I’d instantly know that I’d screwed up. Tonight, it’s more of the same. 

       7:31 p.m. We sat there in silence in the cold dining room, slowly picking at our lukewarm food as the death toll ticker rose on the nightly news. Every so often, one of us would look up and give a weak smile, or we’d make simple small talk, as if we were once again nervous teens on our first date. Sometimes in those moments, I’d see that little glimmer of life that I first discovered in my wife, and I’d fall in love with her all over again. But, like a fluttering flame, that light would vanish, disappearing into a cold void. That look of life would be replaced with an unending sadness, a sadness that would carry its way across our solemn table. When the silence was too unbearable to muster, my wife spoke up, her worries flooding her mind like a storm. “I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be able to live comfortably, Jason,” she said abruptly, the veins near her temples poking out through her skin. “The stimulus checks aren’t gonna last us forever.” Her words stuck in the air like captured flies upon sticky film. “I can’t take this anymore.”

       I, being the hopeless optimist, answered in typical optimistic fashion: “Claire, it’ll be fine. We have money in our savings account, I’ll just transfer it over tomorrow.” 

       These are not the words that I’ve should’ve mustered out. 

       “What do you mean by fine, Jason? Do you call what this is”—gesturing around the table—“fine? Is not knowing how we’re gonna pay bills fine to you? I’m tired of this ‘We’ll be fine’ shit!’” Her words were claws, pain coating the syllables passing through her pursed lips.  

       I stood slowly, offered a meek apology, and then cleared the table. As I made my way to her end, I noticed silent tears slipping from her eyes. I, being a coward, said nothing and resigned myself to the kitchen. 

       So here I am, scrubbing my way through the dishes. Plates, forks, spoons, all getting the brunt of my pent-up anger. It’s not my fault that you lost your job. Don’t blame me for having a shitty boss, thinking that these were the words I should’ve uttered in the moment. But I should’ve comforted her, I should’ve showed that I cared. I take the old bleach-stained towel and wipe my hands with it, looking over my shoulder to the dining room entrance.  I walk with urgency back to comfort Claire. I push open the door, resolved to make amends. “Baby, I’m—,” I say, but before I can finish the apology, I notice that she is gone.  

       Strange, I think to myself. The door obviously didn’t open, I would’ve heard it. Where did she go? My eyes scan the room for any sign of her, yet the only evidence of her previous presence is in the form of a half-empty glass of red wine. “Claire?” I speak these words softly, mildly curious as to where she might’ve gone. A sudden rush of emotion (of fear?) flashes through my bones, as if the warmth of the room has been rapidly replaced by a current of cold, dry air. Gooseflesh appears upon my skin, the hairs being tickled as they stand up one by one. My heart starts to race. Something isn’t right. I slowly creep out of the room, inching my way towards the living area. 

       7:57 p.m. The living room hums with the blue light illuminating from the television set. A flame is gently held within the modest fireplace, and it crackles silently, the red and orange hues competing against the light of the local news. The fire is dimming, its embers barely alive, fighting for oxygen, yet not receiving enough. Candles adorn the mantle, dust resting atop them. They haven't been lit for years now, lying dormant, waiting for their wicks to be sparked again. My eyes do a quick scan of the room, but Claire is once again nowhere to be found. I walk towards the television, my footsteps heavy against the carpet. I reach for the power button, and just before my finger makes contact with the television, I notice that my hands are trembling. 

       I focus my attention upon my hands, palms sweaty with unease. What’s wrong with you? Get it together, I repeat to myself, but nothing can keep my nerves at bay. Determined to push on, I press the power button and watch the blue hue disappear. I leave the living room, the crackle of the dying fire becoming distant behind me. Once my foot crosses the threshold, I hear a muffled sound from the upstairs bedroom. I again call for my wife, this time my voice noticeably shaking, the confidence and calmness now completely lost to unexplainable unease. I clear my throat, inhale a deep breath, and shuffle my feet up the wooden stairs. 

       A cold draft engulfs me with each step up the creaky staircase. The muffled sound is no longer a virgin mystery, the noise becoming more and more clear. It is a whimper, the sound a sick dog would make, a defeated cry of helplessness. Claire, I’m so sorry, I think to myself. I feel terrible to hear her like this, so distressed, so hurt. I feel compelled to comfort her, but I notice something at this instant. My heart is beating faster, adrenaline pumping throughout my body like a motor engine. I’m on edge, alert for danger. 

       My foot touches the last step, and I take a quick breath, slowly inhaling, then exhaling. The upstairs level is nearly dark, with only a faint light creeping out of the master bedroom. I squint and search around for a light switch, my hands feeling at the rhombic shape. I flick it up but am granted the solace of light for only a second; the bulb flickers on for a moment, then sputters out. Great. I stumble around in the dark for what an eternity must feel like, grabbing at the door handle.

       I push the door open slowly, feeling an unworldly blow of cold air shoot through my skin. The room is a complete mess: the bed sheets are askew, drawers all the way open. Clothes are thrown about, my shirts and socks mixed in with Claire’s underwear and stockings. The lamp, usually a pillar, is lying vertically on the floor, the dimmed lightbulb casting shadows that go on for miles in the rectangular room. The walls’ light-brown shade is brightened by the yellow-orange flicker, yet the room was a December evening. 

       I surely would’ve heard all this commotion, yet here this mayhem is, almost as if it’s always been this way. I look at the alarm clock that was cast onto the floor. 8:03 p.m. The past six minutes an endless reality. My gaze now focuses on my wife, and a realization strikes through my heart and sends utter despair up and down my entire body. 

       The woman who sits hunched over at the foot of my bed is not my wife. 

Yes, this woman had the same eyes, nose, and wrinkles around her lips. She has the same furrowed brow, as if she’s working through a tough math problem and the solution is in arm’s reach. She has the same glasses, the frames still red, the lenses still a tad dirty. Her nails are the same: ridiculously short, bitten down to the nubs. Her hands are still slightly wrinkled, and the wedding band still glistens on her left hand. Her figure is still the same, down to her legs. Yet at the same time, something is different.  

       The look in her eyes. That’s it. The look is soulless. All of her life’s dreams and aspirations, her happiness and humor, her kindness and candor, all that made up her spirit, all that was seen through those wonderful eyes. All vanished. Her skin, too, is lifeless. The rosy color now replaced by a chalky white, a claylike gray. When she looks up at me, I feel a never-ending wave of sadness crash against my spirit, her eyes filled with despair. I have a compelling need to run away, to seek solace in some reclusive area, never to return. But at the same time, my body can’t move. My legs aren’t cooperating with my mind, locked solidly to the ground like an oak tree, hands padlocked closed. My mouth becomes a desert, completely dry, and words fail to come out. I slowly and resiliently force my mouth to move, but the only words I can get out are weak and timid. “Cl-Claire? Are you…okay?” 

       The figure looks at me with those lifeless eyes, and slowly says, “Why?” 

       “Why-why what?” 

       “Why did you leave me?” 

       The moment these words leave her mouth, the woman who appears as my wife pulls herself from the bed and launches towards me, a bullet slashing through the wind. Her figure seems…transparent. My body is sweating, cold and persistent. She moves closer to me, her nose practically touching mine. “WHY?” she screams silently, a flicker of anger peeking through this form. At that exact moment, my body untenses, and my legs begin to cooperate. I pivot around and run down the steps at a breakneck pace and begin to search frantically for my cell phone. I make it to the kitchen and begin to panic when my phone is nowhere to be found. Someone, no, something is in my house. I begin to wonder where my real wife has gone, and who this thing is that is in my bedroom. At that moment, I hear a horrific scream pierce through my home, but the sound seems to directly touch my ears, as if a bullhorn is pressed directly to my eardrums. “JASON!” the voice of my wife screams, and I start to cry, tears streaming down my face, warming my cold cheek. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I yell out, fully breaking down in tears. I slump to the ground as the screams get louder and louder, bouncing off of the walls, filling the house with dread. “Please… please stop…” My voice peters out, losing all hope. 

       Then, silence. All the sound in the world deleted. The house is dark in its silence, the only sounds being my frantic heartbeat and defeated moans. I quiet my cries and look up to see nothing. I lay there in silence, for what seems like hours, paralyzed by fear. My hands tremble, my head aches with nervousness, my body weak with weakness itself. Slowly, I pick myself up from the floor, looking at all of the dishes still soaked with water. They look like I just cleaned them mere seconds ago. I locate my phone, its dark screen a sudden comfort. I reach for it, looking to call somebody, anybody, to ask for help or assistance, anything. But right before my hands could touch the phone, the screen lights up, and the ringtone blares through the speakers. Unknown Caller, the screen reads. I pick up the phone, nervously pressing the answer button. At the same time, my heart begins to repeat the same feeling of dread that has stayed with me for the past few minutes. 

       “Hello?” 

       “Hello, is this Jason Morrison?” 

       “Yes—um, who is this?” 

       My voice is shaking, my emotions coloring the smallness of my words. I try to pull myself together, yet it’s a struggle at every moment. The voice on the other end, a man with a smooth, cool voice, replies with a tinge of sadness.        “This is Dr. Bradley Davis at Memorial Hospital. Are you at home?” I reply with a feeble yes, and he continues. “Sir, I don’t know how to say this in a proper way, but I’m very sorry to say that your wife, Claire, has passed away.” 

       With these words, I feel a need to let out a laugh. “What do you mean? She’s right…” Before I can get out another word, I see the same figure of my wife, directly in front of me. She looks at me with longing, tears running down her face. “Why did you leave me?” she whispers. This time I don’t feel scared. Instead, the dark hand of grief touches my soul. The doctor keeps talking, but I don’t hear his words, they all seem muffled, like the cries I heard earlier. He asks a few questions, but I don’t respond. The doctor once again offers condolences, and I hang up and look at my phone, checking the time through teary eyes. 

       7:31 p.m. 

       I look up, and she’s gone. Nowhere to be found. I’m the only one in the room, in the household. I slowly shuffle my way to the living room, tears swelling, and collapse into tears on the couch. I look up and scan the room and notice that the fire that was struggling for so long has finally died out, its logs burnt, its heat dispersed.