Flash Fiction No. 37

#Flashfiction

The Wedding Death

She looked in the mirror. She didn’t want to do this.

Her reflection stared back with the strange glaze that she was used to. The image was surrounded by flares of hurt and anger, crushed in at the edges by sorrow. Did he think she was a tame beast?

She leaned closer to the glass, flexing her jaw, gaze fixed on her canines as they sharpened and then relaxed. He was a snivelling mortal. He’d pay for Christophe’s death.

The wedding dress clung tightly to her skin like a morgue bag. She would burn it when she was through with him, but she had to stay cold for now. If fire and hate turned her stomach she would lose everything to him. Loathing itched beneath her skin.

She would kill him for what he’d done.

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Sharp As A Knife & You Fit Like A Glove

Today, I feel pretty tired and I think my back and shoulders might be mildly sunburnt. I haven’t been into the light yet to see. In fact, I’m typing this whilst in my pyjamas. I will get out of them shortly, but I’ll finish writing this first.

It’s quite obvious that summer has hit England. We’re all complaining about it. Being British, we will happily complain about anything but our favourite thing to complain about is the weather. We hate it when it’s so hot that we can barely move and our fair skin turns red and crispy. We hate it when it’s cold and wet and our clothes are soaked through. We hate it when it’s overcast and the sky seems to be a melancholy mix of miserable. We hate it when it snows because then it is too cold and we never do get any sunlight… except, of course, we do get sunlight and then we fall to complaining about that again. It’s quite dreadful, really. We should just learn to be happy.

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