Thursday, September 19, 2013


Blogtember 19th - Creative writing day: Write a (very short) story fictional story that starts with the sentence "to say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century."
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To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century.  I mean, it would be weird if I were anticipating murdering someone at the dinner party. Normal people dread having to do something as awful as taking a life, right?  They put people away who enjoy murder. Lock them up and call them psychotic.  I guess they put people away for murder even if they did not enjoy the act of killing...but only if those people get caught. I do not plan on getting caught. I don't plan on enjoying the murder either (though deep inside I am scared I might).

As I put on my black a-line dress, the one I bought to wear at my best friend's funeral a year prior, I went trough the plan in my head for the 100th time. I would be sure and make small talk with everyone at the party. While asking about this person's children and that person's promotion, I would mention how I was "doing much better now" and that "therapy really has been a great help." It is what they all wanted to hear, even if it were untrue.

 Including myself and the hosts, there were twelve guests set to attend the party. My best friend's husband and I were the only two single people attending so the hostess planned to seat the two of  us across from each other. I reminded myself that I would have to keep the look of hate out of my eyes while talking with him. Meditation did not help heal the wounds caused by finding my best friend moments after she had been hit by a car, but it had helped me to keep my facial expressions neutral in moments of extreme stress and rage. My best friend's husband and I  had known each other for 15 years and if he even saw a flicker of disdain across my face, the slightest tightening of my mouth, or even a quick furrow of my brow he would know that I knew his awful secret.

And then it would be over.

I pulled the zipper up the back of my dress I thought about how I wished I found out that he was responsible for her death immediately after it happened. Maybe then I could have gone to the police and perhaps they would even believe me (even with my past). But I was slow to pick up on the clues and it is too late for law and order now. The "accident" went down on the books as a hit-and-run. Public opinion was that it was a drunk driver who hit my friend as she walked home from the mailbox on that sunny September morning. Moments after she had been hit, I pulled up to her house and found her crumpled up like a broken doll in the middle of the road. The first thing I noticed when I ran up to her body was that she was missing a shoe. Not the blood nor the impossible angle her head had come to rest, but her one shoeless foot. The police later found the shoe about 15 yards away in someone's begonias.
I wanted to keep it, but they wouldn't let me. 

I rotated my lipstick up out of the tube and began to smooth it across my lips. It was the same shade I had picked out for my friend to wear in her casket. Even with a broken neck and a massive head wound the mortician was able to patch her up and make her presentable. He asked her husband what to dress her in (he chose a simple white dress) and I insisted that she wear her favorite red lipstick. It was the only shade she ever wore so when I found the tube of peony pink in her husband's car a week after her death my curiosity was peaked. One thing led to another and I eventually found out he had been cheating on her. I was crushed. "how could anybody cheat on her?" I thought? "She was so nice to me."
When I found out he was cheating with a married woman who had claimed to be a "friend", I was furious! My best friend never knew she had been betrayed. She never knew her husband and her "friend" had paid someone to kill her and make it look like an accident. She died thinking everything was ok. She died wearing one shoe.
And now I was going to the house of the woman who had been cheating with my best friend's husband. Her husband was clueless about the affair and clueless about the murder. Lucky bastard.
I picked up the knife and placed it in my clutch. Only one thing was left uncertain; would I kill that bitch before she served dessert or after?


Blogger Miss Bee said...

I knew you would find a way to make this you! Wait. Not that you are a murderer, but you know what I mean. (NSA - no need to put her on a watch list. I promise.) lLove it! (And I can picture the exact shade of peony pink lipstick that cheating whore wore. I bet she got it in her birchbox.)

7:12 PM  

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