I’ve just murdered my wife. She made me do it. She was asking for it. She filed for divorce and was going to take everything I have and half of what I make in the future.
I poisoned her. I got it on the Internet. It’s easy to find if you know where to look. I put it in the wine she’s always drinking. The finest, most expensive wines, paid for by me. She drinks – drank – like a lush: she wouldn’t know fine wines from Tesco Finest.
She was lovely when we first met. Great hair down her back, well stacked, legs that went all the way up. No brain, but I wasn’t looking for deep, meaningful conversation. Huh, I wasn’t disappointed on that score.
She got pregnant. She never asked me. I wouldn’t have given permission. Her figure went and she never got it back. She didn’t try. Other women work out at the gym or crash diet. They make an effort for their men.
She’s rolled up in a curtain. In the wardrobe in the big bedroom on the top floor. She has to stay there for a while; I’ve still got one more thing to do. My business partner knows a guy who knows another guy and they’ll take care of it tonight. I’ll say she’s gone away on holiday without me; people will believe that, she did it all the time.
The kid will be home from school any minute. I’ve already prepared her favourite snack.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 