The clock hands crawled towards ten. Another shift. Another endless day of chlorine and screaming kids. My lungs ached with the smell, my ears still rang from splashes. I just wanted to go home, to the quiet hum of my empty apartment. The pool shimmered under the fading lights, almost inviting, but my duty was clear. I gave the usual warnings, the gentle whistles, the five-minute heads-up. Watched the last few stragglers reluctantly gather their towels. Then, I began the ritual of locking up. The chains clicked, the gates groaned shut. Done. My little kingdom secured.
That’s when Linda appeared. Hair frizzed from chlorine, her face contorted into a mask of pure fury. She stormed over like she owned the place, a storm cloud in a bright pink swimsuit, and barked: “WE PAID GOOD MONEY! KEEP THE POOL OPEN!” Her voice echoed in the sudden silence of the deserted deck.
I explained, calmly, about the cleaning schedule. The late-night chemical treatments. The noise complaints from the adjacent hotel rooms. My script was rote, rehearsed, perfect.
She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Show me something OFFICIAL!” she demanded, her voice rising.
I pointed, a slow, deliberate finger, to the weathered sign by the entrance. The faded blue letters read: “POOL HOURS: 8 A.M. to DUSK.” Unambiguous. Undeniable. My petty triumph.
She let out a frustrated growl, a sound like a cornered animal, and spun on her heel, marching straight for the front desk. I watched her go, a small, dark smile playing on my lips. Let her try. It wouldn’t change anything. I stayed out of it. My hands? Washed. In an hour, I was halfway through a microwave dinner when my phone rang. An unfamiliar number.
I answered, expecting a telemarketer. Instead, a voice, raw and shrill, shrieked into my ear. It was Linda.
“YOU!! YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE!!!” she screamed, her words dissolving into ragged sobs. “MY KING! YOU KILLED MY KING!”
My blood ran cold. What? What was she talking about? I stammered, tried to interrupt, but her wails drowned me out. KILLED? The word hit me like a physical blow, punching the air from my lungs.
But deep down, in the darkest, most secret corner of my heart, I knew. I knew exactly what she meant. And the terrifying truth was, a part of me, a small, twisted, vengeful part, had almost hoped for it.
I had seen him, her son, her “king.” Seen him earlier that evening, slipping through the side gate I’d conveniently left ajar. He was meeting someone, a different kind of king, perhaps. Someone who wasn’t me. My heart had burned with a quiet, persistent fire every time I saw them together, their hushed whispers, their stolen glances. He was everything to me, and I was nothing to him.
When Linda had pleaded, screamed, demanded I reopen the pool, my resolve had hardened. It wasn’t just about the rules. It was about him. About making sure his secret rendezvous, his betrayal of my silent devotion, would be impossible. I wanted him trapped, exposed, humiliated. I wanted him to regret every choice that didn’t involve me.
So I stood firm. I played the official. I watched her run to the desk, knowing full well she couldn’t force them to reopen. I wanted him to be stuck, desperate, maybe even cold and alone in the dark, hoping he’d call me for help. Hoping he’d finally see me.
But he didn’t call me. He tried to escape.
He must have tried to climb the fence, the one I knew was unstable near the deep end. Or perhaps he slipped on the wet tiles in the dark, trying to find another way out. The emergency lighting was faulty, a problem I’d conveniently forgotten to report for weeks.
He was found this morning. At the bottom of the empty pool. A broken neck. They say he must have fallen sometime in the night. Trying to get out. Trying to get back to his mother. To his king. My king.
And I, the dutiful attendant who “just followed the rules,” am the only one who knows the truth. The official reason for his death is an accident. But the real reason? It was my silent, jealous rage. My cold, deliberate refusal. My hands may have been “washed,” but they were stained with a sin far deeper than chlorine. I closed the pool. I closed his path. I closed his life. And I did it on purpose.
