Your Mistress Texted My Dead Body

I died in the quietest way possible.

After finishing a batch of the caramel puddings Daniel loved so much, I lay down on the recliner in the living room to catch my breath. I closed my eyes, and they simply never opened again.

There were so many things I still wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that I didn't hate him anymore. I wanted to tell him Id finally forgiven him for the blurred lines and whispered secrets he shared with his assistant, Tiffany. But those words, like my breath, vanished into the ether.

They say everything ends when you die, but my soul felt glued to the floorboards of this house. I watched as Daniel walked through the door, carrying a bag of warm sweet potato chips, with Tiffany trailing right behind him like a shadow.

"Daniel, honey," she chirped, her voice dripping with calculated sweetness. "Your wife just sent me another text calling me a homewrecker. She told me to go kill myself maybe I should just leave. I dont want to be the reason your marriage falls apart."

Daniel looked at my closed eyes, and the flicker of concern in his gaze vanished, replaced by a cold, hard crust of disgust.

"Claire, for Gods sake, when is this performance going to end? Tiffany is just here to pick up some files. Cant you be an adult for once?"

From the moment my body began to grow cold, he did nothing but scold me. He had no idea that later, he would sit beside my corpse, sobbing, begging me to open my eyesbegging for just one word.

It reminded me of being a little girl. My mother had packed a suitcase and walked out after a petty argument, leaving me an orphan in all the ways that mattered. I realized then, as I watched him now, that no matter how much I grew up, I never learned the secret of how to make someone stay when they already have one foot out the door.

Daniel stood over me, venting his frustrations for several minutes. When I didn't snap back or offer a sarcastic remark, he finally let out a long, jagged sigh. The sharp edge of his anger softened into something resembling pity.

He knelt down and gently tucked the bag of sweet potato chipsstill warm from his coat pocketinto my hand.

"Stop being stubborn," he said, his voice dropping into that low, persuasive tone he used when he wanted to fix things. "I waited in line forever for these. Theyre still hot. Youve been craving them from that place downtown for weeks, haven't you? Get up and eat them before they get cold."

The paper bag was warm, but my palm was a frozen wasteland. I couldn't feel a thing.

Daniel noticed how cold my hand was, and his brow furrowed. He stood up, went into the bedroom, and returned with a heavy wool throw. He draped it over me, tucking the edges around my shoulders with a practiced tenderness that broke my ghostly heart.

He disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of running water filling the silence.

"Im pouring you some warm water," he called out. "Drink it. It'll help that cough."

I heard the clink of a glass. His voice took on a rhythmic, domestic quality, as if he were planning a future that still existed.

"After the New Year, Im clearing my schedule. Im taking you down to the coast for a few weeks. The air is cleaner there, warmer. This cough of yours isnt getting better, and the sea breeze will do your lungs some good. Well just watch the waves. Whatever you want."

I hovered in the air, watching the silhouette of the man I loved moving in the kitchen. My eyes burned with the ghost of tears I could no longer shed.

Its too late, Daniel.

Tiffany stood by the sofa, her eyes burning with a manic jealousy. She hadn't expected this. She thought my "silent treatment" would infuriate him, but instead, it had brought out a side of Daniel she couldn't controlthe side that still belonged to me.

While Daniels back was turned, Tiffany crept toward my recliner. She reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my phone. It didn't take her long to guess the passcodeit was Daniels birthday. Her fingers flew across the screen, tapping out a message and setting a timer. Then, she slipped my phone into her own designer handbag.

A second later, a blood-curdling scream ripped through the living room.

"Ah!"

Tiffany grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table and slammed it against her own forehead. Blood erupted instantly, dark and viscous, trailing down her pale face.

"What happened?!"

Daniel rushed out of the kitchen, water splashing from the glass in his hand. He found Tiffany collapsed on the floor, clutching her head, weeping hysterically.

"Daniel... oh my god..." she sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at my motionless form. "She just... she snapped! She hit me with the ashtray! She called me a whore and told me shed kill me if I didn't leave right now!"

Daniels face went white, then a terrifying shade of red. He lunged toward me, his hand reaching out to grab my shoulder.

"Claire! Have you lost your mind? Shes just a kid! How could you do this?"

Just as his fingers were about to bruise my dead skin, a ding echoed from his pocket.

Tiffany shrieked, "Look! Look at your phone! I bet shes texting more threats! She was just holding her phone a second agoshes faking it, Daniel! Shes faking the whole thing!"

Daniel froze. He pulled out his phone. A message sat on the screen from "Wife."

[If that bitch doesn't get out of my house, Ill kill myself and make sure everyone knows it was your fault.]

The veins in Daniels hand popped; his knuckles turned a ghostly white. He looked up at me, the last shred of warmth in his eyes evaporating into a towering, murderous rage.

"Fine," he whispered, a terrifying, jagged laugh escaping his throat. "Fine, Claire. You want to use death as a threat just to get your way? You think you can hold me hostage with your drama?"

He raised his hand.

Splash.

The warm water he had poured for my throat hit me full in the face. Droplets rolled down my graying cheeks, soaking my eyelashes and the wool blanket he had so carefully tucked around me moments ago. I didn't flinch. I didn't blink.

"Still acting?"

Daniels fury reached a breaking point. He snatched the bag of chips from my hand and hurled them into the trash can.

"Fine. You want to play dead? Then stay here and play your little game until you're bored. Im done."

He turned, hoisting Tiffany up from the floor. He didn't look back at me once. His voice was thick with loathing.

"Come on, Tiffany. Lets get you to the ER. Were spending the rest of the holiday at the office. Let her rot in her own madness."

The front door slammed with such force the chandelier rattled.

I drifted in the empty air, looking at my wet face and the discarded chips in the trash.

Daniel, I wasn't playing.

Im really gone.

By the next day, the change began.

Faint, purplish bruisesthe marks of the endbegan to bloom across my pale skin. The heat in the house was turned up high, accelerating the inevitable. My soul, bound by some invisible tether to Daniel, was forced to follow him.

I sat in the back of his car as he drove, his jaw set in a hard, angry line. Tiffany sat in the passenger seat, a white bandage wrapped around her head, surreptitiously playing with my phone. She glanced at Daniels profile, her thumb dancing across the screen as she typed out a status update for my Facebook page. She tagged him, hit send, and then tucked the phone back into her bag with a satisfied smirk.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and innocent. "Daniel... she seems really angry this time. Maybe we should check on her?"

Daniel scoffed, pulling his own phone out at a red light. When he saw the notificationthe update from "Claire"his face darkened.

[If you leave, Ill die in this house, and youll have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life!]

Thud!

Daniel slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring and startling a pedestrian.

"Shes a lunatic!" he hissed, the pulse in his temple throbbing.

He had spent the night cooling off, feeling a twinge of guilt. He knew I wasn't well. Hed even thought about stopping at the pharmacy on the way home to pick up my prescription. But that postthat calculated, public cry for attentionsnapped the final string of his patience.

"If she wants to die so badly, then she can do it without me," he growled.

He wrenched the steering wheel, pulling a sharp U-turn. The route home was abandoned; he drove toward Tiffanys apartment instead.

"Daniel, are you sure?" Tiffany asked timidly, though her eyes danced with triumph. "I can handle being alone. Maybe you should go back."

"No," Daniel snapped. "Shes pulled this stunt a thousand times. The more you indulge her, the worse she gets. She needs to learn that her threats don't work on me anymore."

At Tiffanys place, she played the role of the perfect caregiver. She tied on an apron and began fussing in the kitchen. Suddenly, she let out a small "Ow!"

Daniel, who had been brooding on the sofa, rushed into the kitchen. Tiffany had "accidentally" splashed hot soup on her hand.

"Careful, honey," Daniel murmured, his voice softening as he took her hand and ran it under cold water. He looked at her with such genuine concern it made my chest ache.

I remembered when Id sliced my finger open in our kitchen a year ago. Id asked him for a bandage, and he hadn't even looked up from his laptop. "Its just a scratch, Claire. Deal with it yourself. Im busy."

It wasn't that he didn't know how to care for someone. He just didn't want to care for me.

His phone rang. It was Dr. Benjamin, my specialist.

Daniel saw the name and let out a cynical laugh before answering. "What is it, Benjamin?"

The voice on the other end was frantic. "Daniel? Where is Claire? Ive been calling her for hours! Her lab results came backits a crisis. Her lungs are failing. She needs to be hospitalized immediately. Put her on the phone!"

Daniel interrupted him, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is that the new plan, Doctor? Claire got you to call me with a fake medical emergency? You guys really put a lot of effort into the script this time."

"What are you talking about?" Benjamin stammered. "Daniel, Im not joking! Her pulmonary fibrosis has reached"

"Enough!" Daniel barked. "Tell Claire that if she wants to fake her own death, shed better make it convincing, because Im the one whos going to have to sign the papers. Im not falling for this 'team-up' with her doctor. Don't call me again."

He hung up and blocked the number.

I floated beside him, screaming into the void, trying to explain, trying to tell him that the air was gone, that I was gone. But my voice was nothing but a draft in the room.

To spite me, Daniel leaned in as Tiffany took a selfie of them. In the photo, Tiffany held a glass of wine, smiling sweetly. Daniel sat across from her, and though his expression was cold, the background was a warm, candlelit dinner.

Tiffany posted it instantly. [Thank you for being here. Best holiday ever. Heres to many more.]

She adjusted the privacy settings so that I was the only person who could see it.

Late that night, fireworks exploded outside the window, painting the sky in brilliant colors. Daniel stood by the glass, watching the fading light. He absentmindedly rubbed his thumb over his phone and, on a whim, sent me a text.

[Have you had enough yet? If youre done being a brat, go heat up those dumplings. Don't starve yourself to death in my house. Its bad luck.]

The message was sent. No reply came. No "typing..." bubbles appeared.

Daniel stared at the screen for a minute, then tossed the phone onto the bed in a huff. He thought I was playing a game of chicken. He thought we were in a cold war.

He had no idea that my body was currently rotting on the chair hed bought me for our third anniversary.

The day after the holiday.

Daniel woke up in Tiffanys bed, a hangover pounding behind his eyes. His first instinct was to reach for his phone. Nothing. Not a single notification.

Usually, no matter how angry I was, I never went a full night without checking on him. Id send a text asking if his stomach hurt from the wine, or Id tell him there was aspirin on the nightstand. The silence was beginning to feel heavy.

"Shes really committed this time," he muttered, throwing his phone aside. Anger flared in his chest. "Fine. You want to see who breaks first? Lets see how long you can hold out."

Tiffany brought him breakfast, watching his face like a hawk. "Daniel, its a beautiful day. Why don't we drive out to the coast? You need a break."

Daniel wanted to say no, but the thought of me sitting at home, waiting for him to crawl back, made him nod. "Let's go."

As they were packing, Daniels phone buzzed. It was the building manager.

"Mr. Sterling? Im sorry to bother you, but your downstairs neighbor is complaining. Theyre saying theres a... strange odor coming from your unit. Like something spoiled. Could you head over and take a look?"

Daniels jaw tightened. He remembered the bag of chips hed kicked over, and how I looked "playing dead" on the recliner. He assumed I was being vindictiveleaving trash out or letting food rot just to spite him.

"Its just my wife being difficult," Daniel said into the phone, his voice cold. "Shes leaving trash out to get my attention. Ignore it. Shell clean it up when she realizes Im not coming home to do it for her."

He hung up, the disgust in his heart curdling.

They drove to the shore. The winter wind was brutal, whipping against his face. Daniel stood on the rocks, watching the gray Atlantic churn. The peace he was looking for didn't come. Instead, a memory hit him like a physical blow.

Our anniversary. Id pulled on his sleeve, my eyes bright with hope. "Daniel, lets go to the beach. When I feel a little stronger, lets just go and collect shells. Please?"

He had looked at his watch. "Im busy, Claire. Maybe next year."

Daniel looked down at a small, perfect shell by his boot. His heart suddenly felt soft, bruised. He walked over to a small boardwalk gift shop and bought a delicate shell bracelet.

"Fine, Ill go back and fix it," he muttered to himself. "Shes fragile. If she gets herself worked up into a real sickness, itll just be more work for me."

He went into a convenience store to grab a bottle of water, thinking he might pick up a carton of milk for me, too.

As he stood at the counter, Tiffany watched him from the car, her eyes narrowed. She pulled my phone out of her bag. She quickly navigated to a search engine, downloaded a gruesome photo of a slit wrist from a dark forum, and sent it to herself.

She shoved the phone back into her bag, plastered a look of pure horror on her face, and ran into the store toward Daniel.

"Daniel! Daniel, oh my god!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "She just sent me a picture... she did it! She cut her wrists! Look!"

Daniel took his change from the clerk, and the coins clattered to the floor. He snatched the phone from Tiffanys hand. The sight of the blood, the raw red of the wound, sent a shock of pure, unadulterated fury through him.

It was another threat. Another play for pity. Yesterday it was a "medical crisis," today it was suicide. What would it be tomorrow?

"Lunatic!" Daniel roared. He raised his hand and flung the shell bracelet hed just bought. It arched through the air and vanished into the dark, churning surf.

"I am done with this!" his chest heaved, his eyes bloodshot. "She wants to die? Fine! Let her bleed! Lets see how much she likes the sight of her own blood!"

I drifted in the salt spray, watching the bracelet sink to the bottom of the ocean. It was the first gift hed bought me in years. And hed thrown it away with his own hands.

Daniel, it doesn't hurt anymore. Truly.

The second day after the holiday.

Daniel drove home, his rage having condensed into a cold, hard diamond of resolve. Hed made his decision. He didn't care if I cried, if I begged, or if I knelt at his feet. He was filing for divorce. He couldn't live like this for another second.

Tiffany sat next to him, a small, predatory smile playing on her lips. The title of Mrs. Sterling was finally within reach.

The elevator climbed to our floor. Ding.

The doors slid open, and Daniel froze. The hallway, usually silent and sterile, was teeming with people. There was a bright, jagged line of yellow police tape stretched across our front door. Officers were moving in and out, and a forensic investigator was carrying a heavy black kit, his face grim.

Our neighbors were huddled together, whispering. They were all holding their noses, their expressions a mix of disgust and horror.

"God, the smell... its unbearable."

"I heard shed been there for days. How awful."

Daniels brain went numb. Everything went white.

Tiffany stepped out behind him. Seeing the scene, she gasped and covered her mouth. "Oh my god! Did she... did she set the place on fire just to get us back here?"

That sentence was the match that lit the powder keg in Daniels soul. Another stunt. Shed called the cops just to force him home.

"Claire!" Daniel screamed, shoving through the crowd. He reached the door, his voice a jagged blade. "Get out here! Right now! Are you happy? Youve got the whole building watching! Is this enough attention for you?!"

He reached out to rip down the police tape.

"Sir! Step back!" A young officer blocked his path, his voice stern. "This is a restricted scene. You can't go in there."

Daniel shoved the officers hand away, the veins in his neck bulging. "I live here! Thats my wife! Tell that crazy woman to stop acting and get in the car. Were going to the hospital, and then were going to a lawyer!"

The hallway went dead silent. The neighbors looked at Daniel with expressions that made my skin crawl.

A medical examiner, an older man with graying hair and a mask over his face, stepped out of the bedroom. He pulled off his gloves and looked at the black body bag being zipped up on the floor.

"Stop shouting," the examiner said, his voice cold as a tombstone.

"The deceased is Claire Sterling. Cause of death appears to be respiratory failure brought on by advanced pulmonary fibrosis, complicated by severe malnutrition."

"Based on the state of the body, she has been dead for at least forty-eight hours."

Daniel staggered. "Dead? No... thats impossible."

He laugheda short, sharp sound. He looked at the cop, then at the black bag. "Youre wrong! She sent a photo yesterday! She sent texts! Shes playing you! Shes faking it!"

Tiffany scrambled forward, holding out her phone. "Officer! Look! She sent this to me yesterday! Shes not dead, shes just trying to scare us!"

The medical examiner frowned. He took the phone, glanced at the photo, and then looked at Tiffany with a profound, chilling intensity. He turned back to Daniel.

"Sir, the vital signs of the deceased ceased on the afternoon of the holiday. Pray tell, how does a woman who has been dead for two days send a photo of her slit wrists to this lady?"