I’ve read so many novels about the “crematorium” trope-where the husband has to crawl back and beg for forgiveness-but I never expected to find myself starring in one.
Except there’s no chasing, only the crematorium.
Because I’m actually dead.
I’ve become a ghost, watching the man who betrayed me. Seven days after my death, he finally seems crushed by a delayed sense of grief. In the home I can never return to, he howls in agony, acting as if life is no longer worth living.
You want to know how I feel?
I just stand there blankly, carefully admiring every inch of pain etched onto his face.
I listen intently to his desperate wails, triggered by my departure.
Beyond the desolation and heartache in my soul, a massive wave of schadenfreude suddenly wells up within me.
A joyful, blissful sense of schadenfreude.
It’s a sensation so sharp it borders on thrill. I cover my mouth and begin to laugh.
