The Drowning Room

The cable modem blinked its dying green light at 3 AM, the only illumination in Elena's apartment. She sat on the floor of her bathroom, watching her goldfish circle its bowl in endless, stupid loops. The fish—she called him Marcus, after her ex-husband—had survived three boyfriends, two cross-country moves, and her own occasional neglect.

They'd found Marcus's body in the water behind the old mill. That's what the police called it: an accidental drowning. Elena knew better. She'd seen the messages on his phone, the transfer to an account in the Caymans. Marcus hadn't drowned; he'd reinvented himself, leaving her with nothing but debt and this fish that somehow refused to die.

The water in the bathtub was cold now. She'd been soaking for hours, skin shriveling, hoping the numbness would spread inward. Instead, she just felt hollow—a vessel waiting to be filled or broken.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her sister: 'I saw him. At a bar in Portland. He's got some woman with him. Red hair. Looked happy.' Elena's fingers hovered over the screen. She wanted to bear it all—the betrayal, the years of lies, the way he'd made her feel crazy for suspecting what was true all along. Instead she typed: 'Thanks for telling me.'

The goldfish swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent desperation. Elena reached into the bowl, cupped the fish in her hands. It pulsed against her palms, that tiny heart beating so rapidly. She thought about dropping him into the bathtub, about giving him a taste of the ocean Marcus had supposedly drowned in.

Instead she dumped him into the toilet.

'Marcus,' she said, and flushed.

The cable modem flickered and died completely. The apartment went dark. Elena sat in the bathroom with the water draining around her, finally alone.