Twisted Love

I’ve really no idea what this is. The flash fiction prompt was simply “Twisted Love.” Maybe it had something to do with the fact I was racing to get this posted before midnight? I just don’t know. Reading it after some sleep, I notice the repetition of the word “I.” That’s the problem with first person perspective, I guess. Make some noise in the comments section for my 990 words:

* * *

Gong.

The clock chimes five o’clock. I have work to do and not much time to get it done.

I connect the wires and make sure they’re tight. The ceiling fan looks strong enough, but I’ll only know for sure when it’s time. I make sure the cabinet is unlocked and slightly ajar – just in case. I survey the room once again before heading upstairs to get ready.

* * *

Stepping out of the shower, I see myself in the full-length mirror. I’ve gained a little weight, but I can’t believe anyone would consider me unattractive, unattainable perhaps, but never unattractive. I run my hands down my legs, they’re still smooth in one direction. I don’t expect it will be an issue, so I didn’t bother shaving in the shower. In the mirror, I see that a single red curl escapes my towel. Tucking it under the towel, I smile at what I see in the mirror. The time spent on the treadmill has definitely paid off.

Gong.

I hear the chime from the antique grandfather clock in the hallway – it was a gift from you and it tells me it’s already six o’clock. The chime and that clock reminds me of what I must do. I dress quickly – bra, panties then tackle my red mop. It usually takes about forty minutes to get my hair and makeup perfect, but I’m running out of time.

On the way to my bedroom, I see the clock hands at six-thirty. I really am running late. The stop at the closet is the easiest part of preparing for you. You always did like that skimpy blue dress I wore the day we first met. The color has faded, but your passion didn’t. I always liked the animal this dress brought out of you. Maybe that was the problem, but we were both having so much fun, I just didn’t see…

I step into the sheen fabric and pull it into place before smoothing down any wrinkles. Next, apply the tiniest amount if blue powder to my lips. Finally, the kitten heels complete the outfit. I am ready.

Gong.

The clock tells me it’s now seven. I rush downstairs and wait for your arrival. Perching on the leather sofa, I can feel my anticipation.

This will be exquisite! I can only smile as I hear your car in the driveway. I’m practically salivating as I hear your key in the lock.

The door swings open and you stand there in the doorway. A single red rose in your hand.

“Miss me?”

“You know I did.” I purr, seductively.

I’m almost overcome with desire when you smile at my kicking off the kitten heels. After all, heels aren’t required for what comes next.


You practically sprint to me, but five feet away your foot catches on the wire. Face first you fall, arms outstretched, trying to break your fall. I know I’ve heard about this on one of those crime scene investigative shows.

It can’t be helped, I think as is pull the TASER from under the cushion. You manage to look up as I press the trigger. As the probes race to you I try to discern the look on your face. Surprise? Betrayal? Acknowledgement? Could you possibly know this was to be you penance?

You shudder when the they strike you on the cheek and throat. Then you lay face down on my imported walnut floor. The room stinks. A foul oder I’ll never forget. I just hope you don’t stain the floor. I leave the trigger depressed and set it down – I have work to do.

* * *

It only took me ten minutes to get your body into the wooden kitchen chair. I fashioned a pulley from the fan and using nylon rope, I hoisted you into it. I smile at you being bound with two identical plastic handcuffs with pink feathers adorning the chain. The irony is almost as delicious as my yearning for what has to come next. I feel phantom pain on my own wrists. Your feet are bound with zip ties – something else I learned from watching crime dramas.

A backhand across your already swollen cheek. I draw my hand back, but am stopped by your eyes. One is almost swollen shut, but the other stares up at me.

“Why?” You manage to croak, voice cracking.

“You know why.”

“But, I love you!”

“The sad thing is that you actually believe what you’ve done to me is love.”

A heavy sigh, followed by the last words you spoke to me: “Just get it over with.”

I walk to the cabinet and retrieve my stub-nose revolver. It’s bulky and barely fits into my boomerang leather clutch. I doubt Narciso Rodriguez had this in mind when he designed the cute little clutch, but getting the custom blue leather must’ve put a few dollars in his bank account.

I feel like dancing! I can even hear the music in my head as I move around your body and the rest of the ground floor splashing gasoline here and there. I return the empty container to the garage, right beside the lawn mower.

I grab the box of matches before returning to the foyer. The stench of gasoline is almost overpowering. I have to grip the door frame to steady myself. I gulp the clean air from outside. I can feel freedom only moments away! I take a final look at you – head hung, staring at the floor. I almost decide to just walk away…

Gong.

The chime of eight o’clock hardens my resolve. Striking the match head, I flick it towards you. The flame skitters across the floor and I see the microfiber love seat catch just before the door latches shut.

I program the address to the police station into your GPS. Backing out of the driveway, I see the bottom floor completely engulfed.

In two miles, make a left turn…

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About Mark Gardner

Mark Gardner lives in northern Arizona with his wife, three children and a pair of spoiled dogs. Mark holds a degrees in Computer Systems and Applications and Applied Human Behavior. View all posts by Mark Gardner

7 responses to “Twisted Love

  • K. Zorn

    I’ve read a few of your prompts now and I can say this is one of the best. It has a tenseness that’s hard to put a finger on until you read the end. Good Job.

  • Rebecca Martin

    I was imagining you in drag, but then I realized that you were writing it from the POV of a woman. Weren’t you?

    Anyway, I reread it imagining a woman in the dress and heels this time. I liked it both times I read it.

    • Mark Gardner

      There were actually three distinct paths I thought of for this tale:
      1. A female murderer lacking remorse – what drove her to kill him? (possibly Stockholm syndrome)
      2. A femme fatal who would stage a suicide by hanging to cover a murder. (Would a ceiling fan even work?)
      3. A male in a psychiatric ward telling his case worker of the time he killed his lover (does he even know he’s male?)

      In the end, I went with #1. The elements to the other paths are still in there. I suspect it may have had something to do with me recently picking the last course for my Human Behavior degree: “The psychology of women.”

  • Rebecca Martin

    Aha, so potentially it could have been a man in drag! It just…wasn’t.

    I’m impressed that you had three different scenarios. As soon as I saw the prompt, I thought “Must. Add. To. Novel.”

    • Mark Gardner

      Yep, but remember, “man in drag” isn’t the best way to put it in today’s world of gender identity, sexual preference and social theories. Not a criticism or anything, just a note from a guy who almost has his Human Behavior degree.

  • Rebecca Martin

    Good point. When I think “man in drag”, I think of one of my favorite comedians, Eddie Izzard. But he identifies as a transvestite, not a “man in drag.”

  • Life in Hell | Article 94

    […] one. Chuck’s prompt was “Life in Hell.” This isn’t specifically a sequel to Twisted Love, but I suppose it could be. Here it is at 1003 […]

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