Wrong Soap

She thought the new soap might refreshed him. That’s what a trophy wife do, right? Always thinking the best for her husband, right?


She thought the new soap might refreshed him. That’s what a trophy wife do, right? Always thinking the best for her husband, right?




He slapped her so hard that her left ear buzzed sharply. But she didn’t try to run. Fueled by her stupidity, he grabbed her thin neck. He squeezed it hard enough to make her scratch his hands. He let go.

She fell to her side, coughing hard, gulping down air like a fish out of water. The soap he had thrown away was on the floor by the door.

He walked away from her in disgust. Yelled then cussed at her. Drunk with rage at her naivety.

“Moron, you know nothing about me. Nothing! I gave you everything. Stop patronising me!” With each spat of words, he walked a step away from her, a step closer to the soap on the floor by the door.

She wanted to stop him. She wanted to cry out, ‘Darling, watch out, look out, be careful.’ Just like how she cried for his misdeeds every night.

But no words came. She was just a pathetic fish out of her small tank, no longer swimming blindly. He laughed, looked down and spat at her. Like always, since their marriage. The trophy wife should stay obedient and quiet.

He stepped on the soap on the floor by the door.

He fell down their ornate metallic staircase, bouncing eagerly down each step. He was always in a hurry. He broke his wrists, arms, back, neck and then all was black.

An hour later, his personal assistant found them.

“What happened to the Prime Minister?” asked the young man.

She sat beside the crumpled form. She was able to breathe now. No longer a fish. Now a rich widow.

“I bought him a new soap,” she said. “I only asked if he could stop being so dirty.



Part Of The Anthology: Minimal 2019

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