Mrs. Hawthorne

TRIGGER WARNING TW: VIOLENCE | GORE | MILD STUPIDITY

The sky is grey, an ominous shade of steel, despite it being the height of summer. A day for grief. A day for forgiveness. Or so they say.

The door flings open. Not a knock. Not a warning. Just a forceful entry.

I don’t mind. Not today.

She stands there—pale, haunted, her eyes swollen from hours of crying. Her hand trembles as she extends a veil toward me, a sad smile pulling at her lips.

She loved him too much.

She breaks before I can speak, turning on her heel and fleeing the room.

I am left alone. Again.

The mirror catches my eye. A shiver runs down my spine as I meet my own gaze. I cannot crack. I cannot falter. I must push forward.

After all, this is what he would have wanted.

Today is my husband’s funeral.

The dress is heavy. The veil is heavier.

I descend the stairs with calculated grace, every step a balance between poise and barely-concealed annoyance.

My family awaits below, grief-stricken and clinging to formalities.

My father—my poor, naive father—looks at me as if he’s seen a ghost. The last time I wore this expression was on my wedding day.

Pleasantries are exchanged. Yes—pleasantries. At a funeral. For my husband.

The room swells with strangers, hungry for tragedy. Their eyes drink me in, hoping to witness my collapse.

I do not give them the satisfaction.

Instead, I glance toward the empty casket.

A hollow box. A hollow marriage.

No body. No hearse. No need.

Easy savings.

And before anyone whispers it—"The wife did it"—let me make one thing clear:

I did not kill my husband.

I have been questioned. Swabbed. Interrogated. Holed up in courtrooms, stripped of privacy, picked apart like a crime scene.

I am innocent.

Or so they say.

The women. There were always others.

In the beginning, I was the only one. Or so I believed. Love had a way of making me blind—a luxury I could no longer afford.

He changed over time. First, it was little things. A lingering glance at a waitress. A secretive text. Late nights. Whispers on the phone.

Then came the lies. The fights. The disgust in his eyes when he looked at me.

And then, the final blow—the women were no longer shadows. They were real. Flesh and bone. And he didn’t bother to hide them anymore.

He would come home smelling of perfume that wasn’t mine. He would stand in the doorway, looking through me, talking about ‘his needs.’ He had plans. Dreams. Aspirations. None of them included me.

Not me—just my father’s money.

I was never a wife to him. I was a means to an end. A walking, breathing checkbook wrapped in a nice dress and a last name that opened doors.

I learned to play my role. I learned to smile through it.

Until he walked in one day, hand-in-hand with a blonde I didn’t recognize. He looked almost bored as he told me it was over. Said he was leaving me—for her.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘You’re strong.’

And just like that, he left. He didn’t pack much—just the essentials. He didn’t need to. He planned to take half of everything soon enough.

He wanted half of my family’s legacy. Half of my father’s work. Half of everything I had ever known.

And so, he ran off to celebrate his victory.

A trip. A honeymoon without a wife. A week in a secluded cabin in the hills with his new toy.

But then, something happened.

Something dark. Something unspoken.

Because days later, she came back.

Disoriented. Trembling. Covered in dirt and dried blood.

She stumbled into the nearest police station, rambling about something—someone—in the woods.

They never found him.

Just footsteps leading into the trees. A ripped shirt. A broken watch.

And just like that, the whispers started. The looks. The accusations.

After all, who had the most reason to want him gone? Who had the most to gain?

Who, if not the wife?

The wife always does it.

Or so they say.

The funeral was a joke.

Black dresses, crocodile tears, and pretentious handkerchiefs.

A whole parade for a man without a body.

They wanted to mourn him. To honor him. To pretend he was a saint who hadn’t spent his final days gloating about his escape plan.

And then there was her—the girlfriend.

Sitting in the front row, sobbing into her tissue like a damn widow. As if she hadn’t stumbled into the police station bloody and muddy, crying about monsters in the woods. As if she wasn’t the last person to see him alive.

She cried too much. Way too much.

Something about it felt staged—like a performance. A little too shaky. A little too breathless. Like she was grieving more for the show than for him.

The priest droned on about his “beautiful soul” and “the joy he brought to those around him.” I nearly choked.

When it came time for me to speak, I stepped up to the podium and gave them exactly what they wanted:

“My husband was a man who loved life. He was kind, generous, and always put others first.”

Lies. But convincing ones.

“He lived fully, laughed loudly, and left a mark on everyone he met.”

Especially the blondes.

I heard someone sniffle. Probably her.

I paused, let the silence hang. Then, with the most pathetic faux-shaken voice I could muster, I finished with—

“Rest in peace, darling. Wherever you are.”

The room erupted into more tears, hugs, and muttered prayers. I sat down, folded my hands, and waited for this farce to end.

Finally, it did.

I came home. Took off the ridiculous veil. Poured myself a drink.

And that was that.

I walk into the kitchen, my long skirt swishing around my ankles. The scent of lilies still lingers on the fabric—a faint reminder of the morning’s events.

I glance around and sigh. Another lonely night.

I pull my hair into a bun, but a few strands escape, framing my face. My reflection in the dark window stares back at me, solemn and unreadable.

They call me mysterious.

I tie the brown apron around my waist and pause.

Maybe… I’m ominous.

I reach for the sharpest knife in the holder.

Grabbing the biggest cutting board, I brace myself—this will take some effort.

My fingers tuck in as I position my hands, ready to slice.

The blade pierces the skin and glides through effortlessly.

So satisfying.

I frown as I hit resistance at the spine.

With a sharp tug, I pull the knife free. Fluids squirt out, splattering against the apron I only recently replaced. The last one had too many stains—too many memories.

I wipe the blade on my apron before sharpening it against the granite countertop.

Yes, my countertop.

I never needed a man to get fancy countertops.

The scrape of metal against stone fills the kitchen. It almost drowns out the echoes still trapped in my mind—the hushed condolences, the murmurs of pity, the weight of hands pressing too gently against my shoulders.

I slice through the head again, this time meeting no resistance.

A smile tugs at my lips.

I discard the head and the butt, slicing the rest into thin pieces—for easy storage, of course.

I need a drink.

A few bright red slices go into the mixer. Minutes later, I pour the thick juice into a cup.

I lick my lips after the first sip. The small ones were always my favorite.

I store the rest. I can snack on them later.

Crimson slices drop into a Tupperware before I slide it into the fridge.

I take off my apron, glancing at the fresh stain. I’ll wash it later. The slices even left a red tint on my fingertips—just like the roses left a stain on my gloves when I placed them on the casket.

After cleaning up, I finally sit down, my drink in hand.

The watermelon juice tastes divine.

But the human mind works in peculiar ways.

It was just a watermelon.

I’m nearly finished when it hits me.

I forgot something.

I rush down to the basement, abandoning my drink.

My prettily painted nails curl around the freezer handle, and I swing the door open.

“Hey, baby,” I coo.

I crank up the temperature.

“It’s summer, honey… you must be sweating in here.” I blow a kiss before shutting the door.

Moans and rattling echo from inside.

But come on…

I’m not a monster—

You don’t store your husband in the same refrigerator as your fruits.