“You bitch”, he spat, looming in the doorway. “I’ve heard all about you”. Her plan, ‘be compliant, don’t argue’, shaped in hours of dark waiting, shredded like rotting lace.
“Dirty whore. You fucked them all”. He described each graphic detail with spite and relish. Stomach rolling, she whispered “who?” but, his venom spent, he left.
The vase she grabbed in sudden rage smashed against the closing door. Clutching the biggest shard she raced after him, thrust it at his face then, even as his fists clenched, gently tried to tend the newly-opened wound.
Next morning, she had to pick at last night’s scab, asking, dry-mouthed, “Who said those things about me?” Not wanting to know.
“No-one”, he smirked, “I made it up. To see what you would do”.
Jane James writes poetry and occasional short stories. Sometimes the stories are fictional- but this one isn’t.
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