Bathwater part 3

It was nearly midnight when Timothy, exhausted from decorating and taking the brunt of verbal and physical blows from his wife for hours on end, crept into his daughter’s room to wish her a silent goodnight. Seeing her bed was empty and messed up, he instantly turned to the bathroom door and, seeing that the light was on, gave a sigh of relief. But then his heart missed a beat of its own accord, attuned to foreboding as the heart naturally is. There was no sound of movement coming from within, so he stepped closer to the door and strained to listen. He could hear the loud plip of a dripping tap, as if it dripped in a bath brimful with water. What is Coral doing in the bathtub at this hour of night? he wondered. He knocked, but there was no answer. Then, after moments of silence, he heard a slight splash, as if the bath was overflowing and spilling over the sides. Knocking again and receiving no answer, he called her name; then shouted through the door, ignoring his wife’s curses and protests from the bottom of the stairs. It took five attempts to break down the door; but with each shove of his body against the wood, panic forced the door to give a little more, until he fell right through and landed on the door in a puddle of water. Pain seared through his right arm like embedded piranha; and when he looked in the bath and saw the dress, floating there in the deep, soapy water, he could pick it up with only his left hand. The dress hung limp, heavy with water, light of a girl. No sign of his daughter. It was as if she’d never been; had disappeared, as bubbles do in bathwater...