Death by Design
Maureen Simpkin
Maureen Simpkin
Jessie stood motionless over the now lifeless body slumped across the bench. Her whole body boiling with rage, yet not quite comprehending what she had done or how she had done it. She had threatened so many times but couldn’t quite believe she had actually carried it out. Blood began to drip on to her bare feet, warm and sticky. A pungent smell wafted through the outhouse and hung in the air like a blanket. Her mind racing, she must finish the job before she was discovered. Her rage continued and she began to cut deep into the remains. Her macabre sense of wonder made her stare at what only a short time ago had been working together to keep this pathetic life form in motion. Her shaking hands directed the large razor sharp knife towards the heart and as she held it in her blood-soaked hands she drew it towards her and with sheer relief in her voice muttered, “You’ll never torment me again you bastard.” She continued to cut and pull in a frenzied manner. She removed the still warm remaining parts. She calmly dropped them into a thick plastic bag and placed them in the disused freezer. What she’d do with them she would worry about later. She had only a few hours until her husband was due home and needed to clear all evidence of what she had done. She manoeuvred the rest of the body onto the floor and performed her final act of vengeance. As she drew the axe across her shoulder and swung it towards her victim she whispered, “You won’t be needing this anymore.” It took more blows than she imagined and she began to tremble now near to exhaustion with all that had gone on that day. She managed, with some effort, to cram the rest of the body into the freezer. As she closed the lid she caught sight of herself in an old cracked mirror hanging on the wall. Staring at the dishevelled image she saw that she had blood in her hair, on her face and her arms. The sun was still high in the sky and the warmth added to the stench that she had created. She hosed down the outhouse and watched as the mucky bloodstained water finally ran clear into the drain. Making a final check that no evidence remained to prove her victim had been there she locked the door and returned to the house. After discarding her clothes and scrubbing herself in the shower (for what seemed to her forever) she calmly dressed herself, warmed her husband’s dinner and waited for him to arrive home. “Hello Luv ‘ad a good day? What’s up Jess you look pale?” Fred threw his work bag in the corner, rinsed his hands under the tap and sat down at the kitchen table. Saying nothing Jessie pulled his dinner from the stove and placed it in front of him. She sat opposite him just gripping her now empty cup and staring into space. Fred, oblivious to her predicament and still chewing on his shepherd’s pie said, “I saw that old boy down the road today, you know the one with those four strapping lads, all two snags short of a barbie if you ask me”. Jessie said nothing. “Well, anyway,” Fred went on, “apparently one of his brood’s gone missing, not been seen since last night, probably that one that kept annoying you, d’you remember? I always said that one was trouble”. Still staring into space Jessie said nothing. “By the way,” Fred carried on chatting,” John and Nancy are coming for dinner on Sunday, got anything nice we can ‘av?” Without looking at him and with just a hint of a smile she said quietly, “Why don’t we have… goose?” “You haven’t?” shouted Fred his mouth gaping. “Oh yes I bloody ‘ave.” © Maureen Simpkin All Rights Reserved www.millionstories.net What we like about this story: We read this story through quite quickly when it arrived and thought 'what's that all about?' and gradually its dark underbelly became clear. This story crept up behind us and went BOO! Just you wait and see... Blayney wrote: Makes you wonder what sort of warped mind could create such a story. Congratulations! |
| We like this story because: It took five minutes to read, but we thought about it for days afterwards. Nothing is ever quite what it seems at first glance. |
| The One Million Stories Creative Writing Project One Million Stories... One Million Dreams... |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| ONE MILLION STORIES |