The Music Be The Food flash fiction event continues with round five. This time, the song is “Even In Death (2016)” by Evanescence.
Give a listen to the tune and then read the next flash fiction piece, by Leigh M. Lane.
The Other Woman
Frederick had spoken in one airy breath, “I love you,” while he took her over the bedside, and in the next, frozen mid-thrust, an exclamation, “Sweetheart—oh god—it’s not what it looks like!”
Angela’s eyes met the stark-white woman’s face for a brief moment. Her face exuded an amalgamation of emotions: brows raised; eyes wide and glassy; jaw agape at first, then trembling, pulling into a tight grimace that could almost pass for a smile. Then, with a shriek, the woman retreated down the hall.
Frederick fumbled with his pants while he attempted to catch up. “Jess, please—”
“Fuck you, Freddy!” the woman’s voice thundered from the other end of the hall.
Angela grabbed her scattered clothes, fighting tears of her own. How many times had he promised he was going to leave the bitch? They had plans. They were going to have a life together. Why continue to ride the fence? What was he waiting for?
Frederick had said so many terrible things about that woman—she had a hot temper, spent all his money, never put out—yet here he was, in the moment of truth, scampering back to her. So which of them was he being truthful to when he said those all-important words, I love you?
The lie stung like a needle to the chest, and even the argument at the end of the hall faded away while her senses threatened to fail her all at once. She sat back on the bed, too dizzy to remain upright. Her throat had grown uncomfortably tight, her chest falling heavy, and her thoughts splintered into a confused montage of thoughts and images: Fredericks’s charming smile, the look on his wife’s face, the look he gave back to her on his way out of the room… I love you.
Hurt turned to rage, and a wave of murderous thoughts washed away the painful deluge. There was no digging his way out of this mess. She needed to see him suffer for this. Maybe she’d kill him.
Maybe she’d kill her.
Just rush into the kitchen, grab the biggest knife, and jam it into the bitch’s heart.
A smile crept up but the tears kept coming. No matter. She started down the hall, but the wife sprang around the corner and rushed her with a butcher knife.
“You little whore!” the wife chased her back into the bedroom.
A shock of energy threw Angela into high gear, and she circled the bed, struggling to keep the mattress between them. The wife rounded the bedpost, and Angela made a dash over the comforter and out the door. Relief overcame her when she saw Frederick standing at the other end.
“Call the cops! She’s got a knife!”
But he just stood there.
Read more from Leigh at cerebralwriter.com.