Astrology Hall with Flesh and Blood

Chapter 73

She turned her head away, swinging her two long, slender legs as before, her plump fish-like body swaying and disappearing from his sight. A short while later, the sound of running water came from the bathroom; she must have gone to take a shower. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

"A hallucination, it must be a hallucination!" He snapped out of his daze and slapped himself hard across the face. She must have drowned long ago; perhaps rescuers were currently recovering her body. How could a woman, a landlubber who couldn't swim and had only ever been in the water once, withstand the onslaught of the Dragon King's raging storm? Not to mention, how could she possibly have traveled all the way home from a vacation spot a thousand miles away? Obviously not. Perhaps it was his guilty conscience and lovesickness that were causing this terrifying hallucination? He thought to himself with a self-deprecating smile, lovesickness? While she was alive, I grew more and more disgusted with her each day; only in the moment of her death did I realize how much she truly meant to me? In other words, it meant that her bloody death proved that the bond that held their marriage together wasn't one of habit or inertia, but rather a stronger and more solid emotion.

The sound of water in the bathroom continued. He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the doorknob lacking the courage to turn it. He grabbed his coat, left the house, and made sure to lock the door from the inside, making sure it was locked all the way to the top.

For five years of marriage, he had grown accustomed to this lifestyle: waking up at seven in the morning, eating breakfast on the way to work, and then spending the next dozen or so hours at the office. He was always the first to arrive and the last to leave, and even after get off work, he wouldn't forget to work overtime, usually not returning home until nine or ten at night. His diligence wasn't due to a love for his work, but rather because there was nothing to do at home. Rather than the two of them staring at each other in an annoying way, he preferred the peace and quiet of being alone. Besides, her schedule was completely different from his: for a writer, writing all night was common, but she often lived a nocturnal life, sleeping in late during the day and starting to write at midnight. To avoid disturbing each other, they started sleeping in separate rooms two years ago, each with their own bedroom, so neither could bother the other. Sometimes when he returned home on holidays, he was always greeted by a cold stove—she never cooked, couldn't cook, and disdained to cook. "My hands are for writing valuable words; mundane work is beneath me," she once proudly told him. Yes, no matter how hard he worked at the company, he was still just an unproductive office worker, doing a job that was "unworthy of her." His entire year's salary couldn't even compare to the royalties from one of her novels. Moreover, with the unanimous praise from critics and readers, her book would be reprinted and reissued, her royalties would rise accordingly, and she would become more and more famous... How could she be content to be matched with such an ordinary man?

But she refused to divorce him, and no matter what, she was unwilling to leave him.

Apart from the embrace of death.

He called the police station, only to hear the same old lines: still not found, we deeply regret… He hung up, feeling the chill of March so intense, his neck as numb as frozen rock. Several female employees, who had been whispering amongst themselves, turned away at the sight of his gaze, glancing at him with pity as they dispersed. His and his wife's misfortune must have already spread throughout the company. His boss called him into his office, offering praise followed by a somber tone of comfort—the same clichés he could hardly bear to listen to. He mechanically nodded, nodding to everyone he could find. All he saw were illusions, illusions of offering pity without knowing the suffering of others—useless!

A woman's scream came through the glass window. "What?!" she yelled, her hand gripping the receiver trembling like a leaf. Her face turned deathly pale in an instant.

“His…” she looked at everyone pleadingly, “the phone…”

The boss snorted in dissatisfaction, at which point the woman who answered the phone quickly offered an explanation:

"It was his wife calling..." she cried out, her voice trembling with sobs, "But his wife drowned!"

The voice on the other end of the phone was a long-lost, clear female voice, slightly husky with a metallic quality, exuding a languid and mysterious air—the kind of voice that only came from when she was in a good mood. "Honey, where are you? Are you hungry? Remember to come home for dinner as soon as you get off work tonight! Just tell me what you want to eat, I'll make it for you..."

"You'll do it?" He let out a cold laugh from deep within his nostrils. Her clumsiness was notorious. Washing clothes haphazardly and cooking like she was burning charcoal were minor issues; more serious were the times she nearly caused carbon monoxide poisoning due to a gas leak while boiling water, and another time she burned a bowl-sized hole through an iron pot while cooking, almost reducing the entire kitchen to ashes. From then on, he learned his lesson and forbade her to do any housework. Today, she was going to do something completely different, volunteering for this "ordinary job"?

"Husband, husband..." Her sweet voice continued on the phone, "Tell me, tell me, whatever you want to eat, I'll make it for you."

"Fine," he sneered, "then you can make some food that humans can eat."

Only after hanging up the phone did he realize that he had become the center of attention. A multitude of anxious eyes were scrutinizing him, as if trying to extract every secret from him. Who was on the phone? Who was speaking? Their eyes clearly asked this question.

"Nothing to be surprised about. My wife just called me home for dinner, that's all." He replied casually. That woman who was all talk and no action has now become a devoted wife and mother.

But your wife...

But my wife… A jumble of fragmented images suddenly flashed through his mind: her thrashing, struggling, and panicking in the water, sinking deeper and deeper; her lying quietly beside him, her fins splashing water on the bed, her two lifeless fish eyes fixed on him alone, following him wherever he went… He jumped up abruptly.

Did she use her fish fins to call him, use her fish lips to coax him, and use her fish-headed, human-bodied appearance to continue being his beloved wife?

What kind of dinner will the fish-wife bring him?

Short Story Collection: Horrifying Night Stories - The Fish Wife (Part 4)

Still feeling uneasy, he took a detour after get off work to buy some braised food from a delicatessen. Arriving at his front door, he habitually reached for his keys in his pocket. Just then, a footstep approached from afar, followed by a click as the latch of the security lock popped open.

The door opened.

“I brought the key, you don’t need to open it…” Before he could finish speaking, something nearly shoved into his nose. It was his fish wife, respectfully holding up a pair of slippers with her two large fins crossed. Her dead fish eyes bulged out, eerily expressionless. He couldn’t help but gasp, but to avoid being seen, he steeled himself and took the slippers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that as soon as the slippers were off his feet, his fish wife swiftly swept them into her arms with her fins, her movements so swift they were almost breathtaking. He frowned, because his feet, wearing the slippers, were instantly soaked through.

There was a layer of water in the room.

His mahogany floors, IKEA furniture, leather sofa, and Simmons bed were all soaking in this wretched water. Damn it! He cursed under his breath. Could the drain be clogged? Disliking the weight of his wet shoes and socks, he rolled up his trousers and waded barefoot into the bathroom. Sure enough, a ring of unknown black substance was wrapped around the drain opening, swirling in eddies, the splashing water on the tiled floor making a loud, dramatic sound. He stood there, stunned, feeling as if the drain opening was so deep it would suck him in completely. The dark mass looked like something extremely familiar, utterly bizarre. His rational mind told him that if he removed the blockage, the drain would be clear again. However, for some reason, some unknown force was preventing him from moving, ringing alarm bells in his mind. So he decided to heed the warning from above.

Just as he was about to step out of the house, a soft body suddenly pounced on him and hugged him tightly from behind. When he realized that what was hugging him were two large, folding fan-shaped fins, and sticky bodily fluids smeared all over him, he barely managed to suppress the urge to vomit.

"What are you doing? Let go of me!" He didn't dare touch his wife's body directly, so he could only use words, the invisible weapon, to scold her. "I'm going to find a plumber to fix the sewers. Don't cause me any trouble! Do you hear me?"

She rubbed her head against his back, clearly unwilling. She was incredibly strong; while he was still fretting about his clothes, she turned him around, and then he heard the door slam shut. She had kicked it shut.

Now, only the two of them are left in the house.

She pushed him from behind all the way into the dining room. The table was neatly set, with a clean white tablecloth, and the wine glasses and utensils were already laid out. She practically shoved him into a chair and laid a napkin on his head. The iridescent light from the crystal chandelier reflected on her fish-headed face, and he noticed that her eyes were even more moist and bright than before.

She started serving the dishes.

The first dish presented was a large bowl of shaved ice, the fine, grayish-white kind. "Do they really eat shaved ice in March?" he asked her, puzzled. She strode over and took his right hand in her fins. His hand felt incredibly uncomfortable being held by that slippery, cold thing. She deftly shook her fins, and his hand naturally followed suit, shoveling ice fragments into the bowl. Soon, a frozen, stiff corpse of a ribbonfish was revealed. He looked closer, and the dead fish's eyes were so similar to hers! He felt a wave of nausea.

"Eat up, eat quickly!" She offered to pick some food for him. He was flustered and could only shake his head repeatedly.

Why aren't you eating? Or do you not like it? He thought he heard her ask him that.

"Please, please change it... I feel nauseous whenever I see meat lately, do you have anything vegetarian?" he said pitifully.

She vanished with a twist of her waist, returning empty-handed. He was puzzled when he saw the fish wife raise her fins, and the water plants hanging from them, like an icy hand, suddenly landed on his neck. He jumped in fright.

"Do you like it?" She held his head, the soft, green waterweed like a gentle rope, slowly wrapping around his neck, tightening little by little. In this dark, sunless cage of waterweeds, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see anything, couldn't touch anything, only darkness, slowly strangling his consciousness into the void of nothingness—the darkness of death. His wife had been swallowed up bit by bit by the darkness until nothing was left, and now he was also enduring the exact same pain as her.

Suddenly the clouds parted and the fog cleared.

Simply because she let him go.

Her eyes, brimming with tears, seemed filled with sorrow and a cloud of gloom. Was my cooking really so unpalatable to you? Why did you look at it with such disgust, as if you'd rather die than eat it? Strangely enough, though she didn't open her mouth or speak, he felt as if he could clearly hear her innermost thoughts. So he replied:

"You eat first. I bought my own late-night snack."

He watched her eat.

Out of sheer boredom, he had kept goldfish for a few days as a hobby. Of course, the goldfish had long since died, but the fish tank remained, having absorbed the essence of the sun and moon for several years on the balcony. When she brought out the crystal-clear glass fish tank, filled with clean water, he didn't recognize it at first. She picked up the frozen fish and aquatic plants and tossed them all into the tank with a splash.

What happened next left him utterly astonished. She plunged headfirst into the tank, splashing water violently all over him. Her two fish lips moved rapidly, creating clumps of bubbles on the surface, while the water churned violently beneath, like boiling water. His eyes nearly blurred. Once the tank had calmed down a bit, she emerged from the water, half a ribbonfish held high in her mouth, with an air of haughty pride.

The fish tank was a chaotic mess, with food scraps and crumbs scattered everywhere, as if it had just been through a fierce battle; the clear water had instantly turned murky and turbid. Even though he couldn't bear to look any longer and made an excuse to hide in his study, he could still hear the deafening noise coming from the dining room. She was probably still eating, or perhaps cleaning up the battlefield-like chaos—it didn't matter, as long as she didn't bother him, everything was fine. He was immersed in his own little world. The night was long, and he didn't want to go out and face his fish-wife, so he turned on his computer and started playing mahjong on Lianzhong World. He lost badly, losing four thousand points in just three hours, but he didn't care. He just mechanically moved the mouse, following the beam of light on the screen. His body was limp and powerless, but his cerebral cortex was extremely excited. His eyes were fixed on the monitor in front of him, and he couldn't think of anything but the game.

Short Story Collection: Horrifying Night Stories - The Fish Wife (Part 5)

The water beneath his feet caressed him more gently, a pleasant sensation spreading from the soles of his feet to every nerve in his body, warm and comforting. His feet, along with the furniture on the floor, were immersed in the foot-deep water, without the slightest discomfort. He even questioned his earlier thought: why call the plumber? Indeed, he had felt uneasy when he first stepped into the puddles—but that was only at the beginning. Now he clearly felt an indispensable warmth from the water, like a mother's embrace, making him feel completely immersed. When he heard the gentle flow of water, his fish wife was already silently standing behind him, a cold fin resting on the back of his neck, as if reminding him it was time to sleep.

"What's the rush? Can't you see I haven't finished this round yet? Don't you have any sense?" He was in the middle of a great game, and besides, who would want to deal with that boring woman when it came to a tense and exciting card game?

With a splash, she waded away, leaving him alone. The room dimmed instantly, the monitor casting a pale, eerie light that made his face appear ashen in the darkness. Before he knew it, the clock had passed midnight. His mahjong partners had all left, and he realized his eyes were sore and swollen, aching terribly. It really was time for bed. He yawned and fumbled for the light switch. Whether it was his imagination or not, the water seemed to have gotten deeper over the past few hours. He suddenly remembered that his wife had soaked the bed, and her ugly fish head was probably lying in the water, leisurely blowing bubbles—the thought sent a shiver down his spine. For the sake of his health, he decided to make do on the sofa for the night.

Nothing happened that night. The next morning, while he was still dreaming with his eyes closed, a familiar female voice gently called in his ear, "Honey, wake up~"

He instinctively rolled over and covered his ears, ignoring the noise. But what was that sound repeatedly pounding on his eardrums? What was splashing and slapping the water's surface, and doing so with great enthusiasm?

He opened his eyes and gasped. Overnight, the water had risen silently, nearly submerging the sofa where he lay. His fish wife floated leisurely on her back, her legs moving rhythmically. Her head was high above the water, her dark mouth gaping open, like a seal begging for food from its keeper. What was slapping the surface were none other than her two oar-like fins.

Indeed, she was right; seven o'clock was early. He quickly put on his clothes, but got stuck on the last step before getting out of bed. His slippers were gone, probably swept away by the water. So he simply ordered, "Slippers."

With a whoosh, her fins swiftly paddled through the clear water, her entire body piercing through the surface like an arrow, nimbly shooting out. Her human feet, bobbing up and down, were strikingly white. Before he could react, she had already returned safely, his slipper dangling from her beak high above the water.

He snatched the shoes away, offering neither praise nor criticism, and silently stepped into the water. Strange, he wondered. The water was clearly above his calves; normally, walking in such water should have been incredibly difficult, yet he felt not only no strain, but even more relaxed and comfortable than usual. The water was truly bizarre. He began a quick wash, and wherever he went, his fish-wife followed closely, swimming silently beside him. A persistent question lingered in his mind: was the phone call he made to the company yesterday, and the voice that woke him this morning—he recognized it clearly as his deceased wife's voice—coming from her fish-like lips? If so, why did she never speak to him directly, only speaking when he couldn't identify the speaker?

"Never mind," he chuckled bitterly, seeing her blank eyes again in the mirror above the sink. That unchanging, lifeless expression always sent chills down his spine. Anyway, even when she was still human, he had nothing left to say to her. So be it.

He was in an exceptionally good mood today. One reason was that his leather shoes, which he thought were ruined by water, turned out to be completely dry inside. His pants and socks, just like the shoes, were soaked to a pulp, but after going outside and drying in the sun, they were completely dry! His second reason was that everyone who came into the company greeted him with a big smiley face, their smiles as bright and cheerful as the midday sun. After receiving this "gift of smiley faces" from everyone from the department manager to the cleaning lady, he was still completely baffled and finally couldn't help but ask his best friend.

"Tsk tsk, pretending, still pretending with me!" My colleague grinned mischievously. "You're quite the guy, you've fooled us like a fool. Why don't you apply for an Oscar for Best Actor?"

What Oscars? What does he mean by that?

"Stop acting in front of me!" His colleague patted him on the shoulder. "Your wife told you everything!"

She...? He grabbed his colleague, his expression extremely urgent: "What did she tell you?"

Last night, while he was engrossed in a game on Lianzhong (a Chinese online gaming platform), his colleague received a phone call. The person on the other end claimed to be his wife, and out of long-standing friendship, his colleague confirmed her voice. She declared that she had miraculously survived and was now safely at home. His colleague was quite surprised, somewhat puzzled as to why he hadn't mentioned this at work, instead adopting a widower-like attitude. At that moment, the woman on the phone laughed—a hearty, cheerful laugh.

"It's a little embarrassing to say... Actually, we've been giving each other the cold shoulder for the past two days. It's all my fault; I'm the one who made him angry." The woman sighed softly. "Maybe he's in a bad mood, which is why he deliberately didn't explain to you."

Now that things have come to this, what could her colleagues say? They could only offer a perfunctory consolation. Not only this colleague, but even the department manager and the cleaning lady received calls from her, all saying things like, "I'm back safe and sound. I'm so sorry to have worried everyone. Please take good care of my husband from now on." It's unbelievable how she got so many phone numbers and dialed them one by one. And that wasn't the worst part. Her colleague then leaned close to his ear and mysteriously told him:

"Oh, right, my sister-in-law told me something else at the end."

"Her experiences were so bizarre that she felt it would be a great pity not to share them with others, so she decided to write them into a novel and begin publishing it today."

As he spoke, his eyes remained fixed on the newly published newspaper on the table, and through the ink-stained paper, his wife's name could be vaguely discerned.

Short Story Collection: Horrifying Night Stories - The Fish Wife (Part Six)

"The abyss—my days and nights at the bottom of the water."

Above my head was water so green it was almost bluish, and above that, a white, transparent light—the light of the world we inhabit. My consciousness, like this body, drifted and floated in this water. Where was I? Why was I here? I opened my mouth, but what I inhaled wasn't air, but a torrent of water under immense pressure. It surged and crashed recklessly, rushing down my esophagus and all the way to my stomach before finally stopping. I choked and tears welled up in my eyes, but tears are also water, and they silently dissolved into the ocean of my kind.

"In the abyss of darkness and despair, I feel nothing but water. The water gently built my silent tomb, where I will sadly die and decay."

"I vaguely remember being a person, a land animal with four limbs but only able to walk on its lower limbs. I raise my two upper limbs, unsure if they were born that way, with their broad, fan-like appearance. Water flows gently past me, the smooth, comfortable pressure giving me an unusually familiar feeling, a sense of déjà vu… I had experienced the same feeling before, only then I was lying in a stronger, more reassuring embrace. I try to dispel the mists of time, and ah, seeing that scene, even now my heart cannot help but ripple slightly. Isn't that him…?"

The following scene needs no further elaboration; it's simply a recollection of the time he carried her into the swimming pool. She recounted it in a dreamlike, clear style, and reading it, his long-dormant heart couldn't help but open the long-locked doors of his memory bank, peeking inside. To be honest, he had never imagined that one swim would leave such a deep impression on her—it was just a five-yuan-an-hour swim, after all.

“It’s not to commemorate the first time, but because of ‘him’,” she continued. “It was a long-lost tenderness, something that could only be encountered once in a lifetime. Even at the darkest, most boundless bottom of the water, my whole body still felt as if I were tightly embraced by that burning warmth. The feeling of warmth has never disappeared since then. May he bring me peace.”

That concludes today's installment. More tomorrow. He stared wide-eyed, practically trying to glean tomorrow's update from between the pages of the newspaper. Was this truly what filled her heart? After he had caused her to fall into the abyss, she was actually using their past warmth as motivation, praying for his protection… How utterly ridiculous!

Everyone knows she's back now, not just the people in the company, but also the editors she knows well. Otherwise, why would they publish her writing? Now she's announcing her comeback with her own serialized work, but who could have imagined that she would return as a fish-headed, human-bodied monster? He was both upset and had to deal with the congratulatory colleagues; even the strongest nerves couldn't hold up. So, for the first time, he proactively asked his boss for leave early. His boss only glanced at him, then readily granted his request with a meaningful smile.

Without disturbing anyone, he quietly opened the door. The water inside was even higher, almost reaching his mid-thighs. He gaped in disbelief; indeed, all the household items were submerged, slippers, towels, pillowcases, and other small objects floating high on the surface, drifting about. Yet, even when he opened the door, no water flowed out—to be precise, the doorway seemed to have formed a transparent barrier, blocking the water's movement. He cautiously dipped his legs into the water; at first, it was icy cold with an indescribable slippery sensation. However, as he moved, the water seemed to come alive, gradually warming to a comfortable temperature, neither too hot nor too cold. When he reached the bedroom door, he could clearly hear the sound of typing coming from inside, albeit somewhat muffled. Through the crack in the door, he glimpsed a figure working at a desk: his wife sat upright in the water, draped in a lotus-patterned chiffon nightgown, her entire body hunched forward, blocking his view. Aside from her notebook, there was nothing else on the desk. The water barely reached the edge, and although the power switches and sockets were all submerged, they didn't seem to be affected, which was quite strange. Thinking about the serialized article in the daily newspaper, he couldn't help but wonder, imagining her typing with her fins... impossible. So he waded through the water and quietly approached her.

She was indeed typing, and she was indeed using her fins. Surprisingly, five chopsticks were nestled in the folds of her fins, and with the movement of her fin bones, the chopsticks landed on different keys on the keyboard, typing out one beautiful Chinese character after another. It wasn't just writing articles; he also noticed the QQ icon in the upper right corner of the monitor, several avatars flashing up and down, with a row of chat boxes below. He immediately guessed that his fish wife was chatting online with someone. People often say that you never know if a person or a dog is sitting behind a computer; now, even fish can chat online!

"Having a good chat, huh?" he sneered. "Want to do a video call?"

Fish Wife's body trembled violently. She slowly turned her upper body, staring at the man behind her with her bulging eyeball. He was most afraid of that look, and reluctantly changed the subject to a lighter one:

"I read today's newspaper, 'The Abyss,' wasn't it written by you?"

She remained silent, but like a puppeteer manipulating strings, she manipulated a few chopsticks, and a new Word document popped up on the screen. "She doesn't even need to touch the mouse; she's incredibly skilled with keyboard shortcuts," he thought to himself. Next, her chopsticks flew across the keyboard, typing out a line of text.

"That underwater experience is an irreplaceable and invaluable experience for both me and the readers, and I have a responsibility to disclose it."

"Hmph," he scoffed, "so high-sounding. 'Beautiful writer survives ordeal, recounts her painful past'—what an eye-catching headline. She's just using her misfortune to create hype, making a quick buck. How is she any different from those female celebrities he despises who use scandals, rely on their bodies to climb the ladder, and grab entertainment headlines?' He mocked her with a subtle, malicious sneer:

"Oh? No wonder you're a professional writer. Even with your monstrous appearance, you still care about your readers!"

Short Story Collection: Horrifying Night Stories - The Fish Wife (Part 7)

Before he finished speaking, he realized he had made a grave mistake. The keyboard, like fish fins, remained silently still; the chopsticks, suddenly losing their grip, fell to the ground, sinking into the deep pool of water. In his eyes, what splashed into the water wasn't just a simple typing tool, but the pride and self-respect of the fish as a writer, and her dignity and heart as a woman. She was a newly popular online writer, winning widespread recognition with her compelling plots and refreshing writing style. However, while she was struggling in the literary world under a pen name, amidst a sea of talented writers, she waited anxiously for an editor's acceptance letter, drifting aimlessly for many years without ever making a name for herself. Until one day, she gritted her teeth and posted her photo—instantly, a torrent of praise poured in, hailed as a "new generation of beautiful writers," "the last beautiful female writer," and other such titles were showered upon her, so quickly it was dazzling. Their only common thread is their inextricable connection to the word "beautiful woman." She became famous, gaining widespread online popularity as a beautiful woman rather than a writer, and successfully dominating traditional media. Every novel she published included a thick stack of photos as a preface. She was stunningly beautiful in front of the camera, sometimes wildly sexy, sometimes breathtakingly aloof, which contributed to her consistently strong sales. Sometimes, staring at her enormous posters, he couldn't help but wonder: did readers buy her books to read her words or to see her photos? Did they admire her passionate and unrestrained thoughts, or simply to praise her beautiful body?

He didn't understand, nor did he care to understand. He wouldn't even glance at the hefty royalties she brought home, nor would he touch them. In his eyes, they were no different from the money his wife earned from selling herself, filthy and stained with the saliva of countless lustful men. The thought of his wife earning money in such a degrading way filled him with a sense of inadequacy as a husband, and a pang of guilt gripped his heart. He even felt that his wife had taken this path largely because he wasn't hardworking or ambitious enough, unable to satisfy her desire for material wealth.

Guilt, and hatred.

That hatred was like a venomous snake, slowly devouring his soul. He was now inexplicably famous, all thanks to his wife, and occasionally he would be recognized on the street. He often fantasized about what people would say about him if he turned his back on them. "The husband of a beautiful writer," "A beautiful flower stuck in cow dung," or perhaps "A coward," "A useless coward," "A bastard who can't even control his wife"? This imagination tormented him constantly. The thought that the older generation might gossip about him and call him spineless sent chills down his spine, even in his dreams. He hated the feeling of being the center of attention, he hated this kind of fame that came from nowhere, especially because of his less-than-honorable wife. Therefore, he asked her to stop writing and retire, or at least stop posting photos—but she completely disregarded his advice. She mocked his outdated thinking, saying that she was just adding photos as a bonus, that she hadn't used their private lives as a topic of discussion, and that she hadn't used her "lower body" for writing. “These days, if you don’t come up with some eye-catching gimmicks to fool people, it’s no wonder readers won’t buy it!” she said confidently. “I’m just like that Guo Jingming. He’s so skinny, but he still released photo albums and records, and he’s got a bunch of young girls all smitten.”

But he was a single man, and you were a woman, a married woman at that… He was so angry he wanted to slap the delicate face in front of him to bring her to her senses, but he didn't dare. Now he finally understood that their ambitions were worlds apart from the very beginning. He only wanted to hold his beloved wife in his arms on cold winter nights, watch TV together, have another obedient and sensible child, and enjoy the joys of family life; but what about her? Success was merely a temporary goal; her ultimate dream was to leave her deepest mark in the sacred halls of literature. “One day,” she would say, her eyes always sparkling with a dreamlike brilliance, “one day, I will be enshrined in the temple of the Muses, receiving the worship of future generations. My body will decay and turn to ash with the passage of time, but my novels will be passed down through generations. All tangible things will eventually perish, but intangible and excellent ideas will be like torches, passed down from generation to generation, inherited in human memory, and ultimately achieve eternity.”

What a boastful woman! When their relationship was still in its honeymoon phase, the occasional glimpses of ambition she revealed were endearing to him; at least she had more drive than most girls… But now, he was beginning to fear this ambitious woman. Compared to her soaring aspirations, his own ideals seemed so insignificant. No, a woman like her, destined for the skies, shouldn't have married a down-to-earth man like him…

"...Now I'm gradually getting used to the light in the water, even if I wasn't used to it, there's nothing I can do, because I've discovered something strange: I can't close my eyes anymore. I don't know why, not only can I not close them, but I can't even blink. The water rushing in from all directions presses against my eyes, making them feel sore, swollen, and painful. I know that when you stay in the dark for a long time, your pupils naturally dilate to capture more light. I imagine my eyes must be even bigger and darker than before right now, but unfortunately, he won't get to see it. Speaking of which, my head is throbbing terribly. I haven't slept for days, have I? I guess so, because my mind is a bit foggy, and I don't quite remember the exact dates. If I don't close my eyes, the light keeps stimulating my eyeballs, so I can't sleep peacefully at all..."

"But before that, I think there's something more important to do. I must be hallucinating; his face keeps moving back and forth in front of me, from my left eye to my right, and then from my right eye to my left, looking like a ghost floating in the water. His eyes are looking at me seriously, even with a hint of sorrow. His mouth opens with difficulty, then closes quickly, and then pauses for a long, long time before finally opening again... Was he trying to say something to me? The sound of the water is too loud; I can't hear anything..."

What was it? He recalled that five years later, in the same honeymoon suite, he mustered his courage and said to his wife, who was still as beautiful as ever:

"Let's get a divorce."

Short Story Collection: Horror Night Tales - The Fish Wife (Part 8) - Complete

That moment was like a shooting star, silently traversing five years in an instant. Happiness and warmth, too, were nothing but fleeting clouds; the illusory castles of love imprisoned countless dreamers, only to be shattered by the harsh realities of life when dawn broke and the dream ended. He painfully recalled that deciding to spend a lifetime together after just two years of dating was a mistake in itself; and although he quickly realized this mistake, he was pressured by himself and the outside world, taking a full five years to finally resolve to correct it—wasn't that an utter tragedy for both him and her?