Silhouetted behind tattered lace curtains in her favorite chair rocking,
she patiently waits. Occasionally she peaks beyond the worn, dirty sepia, any minute company will arrive. Winter's Ball is underway, and she's calmly prepared herself for the night of her life.
Nothing can stifle her excitement.
The captain would have been her date. Pushing long black hair back behind her ear, she determines it was his fault. He'd driven her to do it, damn him. The weather reacted without warning. Hard cold rain gushed, pelted from brood of sky. Icy winds shrieked through naked trees, branches stabbing, damning, accusing, condemning.
She shrugs it off, what could they know?
They couldn't have seen a thing.
It was the smell that lingered, the air heavy with pungent iron-rich stench of fresh blood. Slaughterhouse blood. Nice...
a moment came when sadness crept.
Only a moment.
Her husband was a sea captain, and left her in aching loneliness most nights. What she lacked in looks, she made up for with practicality. He had no doubt her love be true. Kept him sated, happy, healthy, adored.
The newlyweds hardly quarreled.
Until little sister moved in.
Little sister outshone her in everything, looks being the first thing people noticed. Adept at conversation, loaded with girlish charm, she possessed a granite-sharpened mind. Beaus came and went. Happier she was too, with the ruthless finish every one of them.
Captain breezed in, seablown salt crusted on whiskers.
Yet, he came alive quickly enough upon noticing little sister. Damn.
Breathtaking.The word kept pushing all other business with wife aside...
firmly plump, ripe for picking,
Wife refused to admit she'd been aware of the exchange between them, better not to interrupt the natural course of fate, she surmised.. Trouble gnawed from inside out. The jealousy was enough to crush the breath right out of her.
Later that night, outside her sister's room, wife hesitated.
Her husband was in there.
Animal grunts, pitter-pat noises as iron bedframe
rocked violently under her husband's large, rutting body.
That's when blood poured from the walls, from the folds of her nightdress she found her kindling axe and commenced to flail until the weapon grew too heavy. She left it buried in the middle of his skull.
Dead in his dressing gown, with an erection. Fitting.
Little sister hurried to cover her nakedness. Little whore!
Big sister gave herself no time to think. She yanked the axe out of her husband's head, and let loose her fury. Not a soul could have known how many blows it took. Her sister was dead at her feet.
Her feet!
How ironic!
Later she set about cleaning up the scene.
Blood was everywhere, the walls, the high ceiling. She was covered in it.
Frantically she scrubbed her face and arms almost as if she could scrub away the memory, of what she'd done..
but nevermind all that now..
Tonight, her only desire was to dance, to forget what happened, or how much she'll miss the both of them. She changed silently before her carriage came. Adorned in the velvety number her husband claimed had always been his favorite.
She'd wear it for him.
Now she sits and dreams lovely dreams of her night ahead. She'll drink and make merry, be so happy not a soul will guess she'd anything to do with this nightmare.
Besides, all this murder was giving her a terrible headache. . .
.
.
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Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
. and there I was, always thinking the 'waiter' had done it. Good attempt here.
