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My wife is one of those under the fin. You know the type, they're not that bright or anything but they're usually a fetching piece of eye candy to keep around. That's why I chose her. I could have picked any of my peers, of course, but, between you, me and the Gods? I couldn't stand to be with someone equal to me, or God's embrace, better than me. No, there's a comfort to be had in waking up next to someone you know is below you, every single day for the rest of your life. Waking up with none of that insecurity in your heart, none of that uncertainty, knowing your parter has no better options. Soothes the soul, knowing she'll always be there, cleaning, cooking, and looking good while doing it. That's what I call a blessed marriage. It's not love like a poet would go on about, a blaze of passion and desire that sweeps one off their feet, but really, who'd want that? For the bleeding hearts out there, feel free to call me a unrepetantant narcissist if you wish. At least I won't be going through a divorce any time soon.
Well, even if I wanted to, I couldn't. It's been days since I last woke up. I'm dead. Not the good sort of dead, though not the worst either. Seems the gods just decided to take their time with my soul. Maybe I'm a treat for later, you know? Neo's pudding stored away, waiting for him to finish dinner or some such. Until then, I'm still here, standing over my own corpse, waiting. It'd be worth something to see who'd appear at my funeral, who'd laugh or weep, but that'll have to wait as well.
I'm still in the very same bed I died in (I died in my sleep. I do not know the causes: Maybe the gods just made a mistake and took me a little earlier than they'd planned. Just like their unusual lateness, I forgive them for that as well.), with the covers drawn over my chest. My body is stiff and my mouth is closed. It's clear I'm not breathing. I'm very, very cold. I'm no godless to gather dead things and watch them rot, but I feel that the scene would be quite ugly by now if I'd died in the summer. All things considered, other than the lingering smell, I'd say it's quite serene. The only occasional disturbance comes from my wife.
She sits close by the bed, watching me. Maybe she's too dumb to realize that I died and presumes that I'm just tired from work. That I had taken a long sleep, and I'll wake up soon. Sometimes she tries to rouse me from my slumber, calling my name, gently touching my cold shoulder and stiff fingers. That's how the past few days have been, now that I think about it. She'll sleep at the floor of the bed with my deceased remains, rise, try to wake me, go make breakfast, place it on a bed stand close to me, and wait. Occasionally someone knocks at the door and asks why I didn't appear at work and what not, and she says that I'm sick or something, but nobody seems to quite care enough to check. Whatever. This little game has been going for days. She's barely eating anything herself. I can see her growing weaker.
When she isn't looking at my corpse or attempting to remove any of those filthy insects that attempt to gnaw upon my flesh or lay their brood beneath my skin, she prays. She looks beautiful doing so, and her words carry that lovely devotion I knew, but she's such a dumb little thing. If the gods are not coming here to take my soul, I doubt they'd care for the pleas of what is but a trophy wife. Her prayers will go unheard by all that is divine. Only I listen to them, as I watch with her.
Even when she looks so sickly and weak, she's still a sight to see. She had such a way of grooming herself, taking care to soften and flatten each hair so her fur became a single smooth texture, as if it were a veil of the finest weave wrapped around her body. Part of me almost wishes that she would just lie by my corpse and let herself go, as if the sole reason for her heart to beat was our marriage, and without it, she's as good as dead. I'm a greedy man, and I always thought all of her would pertain to me. That she'd follow me to the very end, no matter where I went.
But right now, as I lay in bed, and she sits by my side, looking expectantly at my corpse in the hopes that I'll wake up, I find myself tiring of her vigil. Instead of wasting away, it might be for the best if she should give up on her worthless yearning, and leave this place. Sure, I was the best option she ever had, but who knows? I'm sure she can find some mediocre husband that is suitable enough if she manages to give me up. I want a divorce.
Either by her choice or my wishes, we wait in silence. Watching as I rot and she languishes. We don't have all the time in the world, and each daily routine erodes the little we have. She'll inevitably pick an answer.