Page 1 of Writhe
Ihate family dinners. Although, I would probably like them more if “family” wasn’t before “dinner.” The butlers serve us our plates one by one, their white gloves as pristine as the opulent decor that suffocates me in this room. Klaus winks at me from across the room as he hands my specific plate to another server, who places it promptly in front of me. Prime rib and potatoes that are creamed to perfection—just the way Klaus knows I like them.
I take the knife in my right palm and begin to cut my meat into tender little slices. The sound of the knife scraping against the plate blends with the grating hum of conversation around the table. My fiance’s mother boasting about her roses, father detailing yet anotherimpending promotion, and my fiancé, chiming in with that too-perfect laugh I’ve come to despise.
I dip a slice of rib into the aus jus and swipe it through the potatoes, the balance of flavors bouncing delightfully across my tongue. I make a mental note to give Klaus my regards after I finish my meal. He really outdid himself.
My fiancé reaches across the table to touch my hand. His expression is one of affectionate control. “Are you feeling alright, darling? You’ve been so quiet tonight.”
“I’m perfect,” I reply with a smile, and it’s not even a lie.
He smiles back, but his eyes flicker with apprehension. Not that I really care. It will be over soon.
I take another bite, savoring the tender cut of meat as his mother’s head tips forward. It happens slowly, so agonizingly slow, that for a fleeting second, it could be mistaken for a weary nod, as if she’s merely surrendering to exhaustion mid-sentence. Then comes thethunkof her forehead slamming into the mound of potatoes—a sickening squelch as her slack lips part just enough for drool to seep onto the gravy-soaked plate. The silverware trembles against the porcelain, and a ripple of aus jus splashes across the pristine tablecloth, dark and glistening.
What a waste of such a fine reduction.
“Mother?” My fiancé’s voice wobbles, the sharp crack of fear splitting through the air. He scrapes his chair back, moving to check on her. But as he goes to her, his father exhales one last, ragged breath. His bodyslumps backward, limbs boneless, the fragile stem of his wineglass slipping between unresponsive fingers. The ruby liquid spills in a widening stain, soaking into the fibers of the antique Turkish rug. It spreads like a wound, like rot sinking deep into flesh. It’s beautiful.
Thomas, sweet, naïve Thomas, barely has time to gasp before he crumples. His face meets the plate with brutal force. His fork, still clutched tight in his trembling grip, spears through the soft flesh beneath his jaw, punching clean through his tongue and into the roof of his mouth. His body jerks, a strangled, wet gurgle caught in his throat. Blood wells up instantly, spilling from his lips and flooding his plate in rich streams. It soaks into the mashed potatoes, blending seamlessly with the butter, and I wonder if it enhances the flavor.
That has to hurt . . . oh well . . . it won’t for long.
One by one, like a well-rehearsed symphony, they all fall.
A female butler screams and scrambles into the kitchen, presumably to call 911 hoping to save theirpreciouslives. Klaus uses his gloved hands to check for a pulse and softly shakes his head no. The rest of the staff scramble, shouting orders and gasping in horror. Someone knocks over a chair in the chaos.
And me? I just sit there, sipping my wine and savoring the rich bouquet of blackberries and tannins. And I smile. Since this will be the last glass of wine I’ll be able to enjoy it for a long time.
I slide my fork through the last bit of potato, my eyes fixed on my fiancé, who’s shaking his sister’slifeless shoulders now. My smile stretches wider. Her? I’d kill her over and over, like one of those terrible time-loop movies.
“Darling?” He turns to me, his face pale, and I can’t quite say if I’ve ever seen fear in a man’s eyes like that until now. “What’s happening?”
“Oh, baby,” I say softly, taking another sip of my wine, “you’ll figure it out.”
“What did you do?” Quite bold of him to presume I had anything to do with it. But alas, I’m not about to deny my intentions. Especially when everything went accordingly.
I let out a soft laugh, the kind that bubbles up when someone tells a private joke only you understand. “You were always slow on the uptake.”
He stumbles back from the table, his hands tangling in his perfectly-knotted tie, as if he’s suddenly choking on his own fake charm. I set my wineglass down. “I did exactly what any sane person would do.” I gesture to the table, to his lifeless family sprawled out like grotesque marionettes with their strings cut.
“I—” He backs into a wall, his legs trembling as I corner him, my breath ghosting against his collar.
“Do you know how much arsenic it takes to kill a man? Or how to make sure it doesn’t alter the taste of a good prime rib?”
“You’re insane,” he whisper-shouts and I grin wildly.
“Maybe,” I concede. “But I also know how little to give someone to delay the effects. Just enough to let itsink in, to give us time for this . . . conversation. A slow burn, if you will.”
His eyes widen, the realization creeping in as he begins to cough violently. Each wheeze rattles him. His knees give out, and he collapses on the floor, his body spasming as he struggles for air. I kneel beside him, smoothing his hair away from his sweat-soaked brow.
“Here’s a secret, my dearfiancé,” I murmur, my voice sweet like honey. “I’ve been fucking Klaus for months. So, I suppose we’ve both been cheating . . . just with the same man. Isn’t that poetic?”
His eyes flutter open, a flicker of agony etched across his features. He tries to speak, to form words through the haze of pain, but it’s futile.
“Shh,” I soothe, my fingers tracing a delicate line along his jaw. “It doesn’t matter now—none of them do. This is your legacy, baby. A lesson in hubris.”
Life drains from his eyes, the last flicker snuffed out like a candle. After a few moments, I rise from the ground and brush off my dress, smoothing the fabric as though nothing happened, as though the scene before me wasn’t one of calculated destruction.
But I don’t rush—there’s no need.
