Home at last, he goes straight for the drink. His empty tumbler is ready for me to refill before I reach him.
As I pour I wonder, “How many whiskies this evening?”
“Not as many as last night,” someone inside me answers, “Or any night before.”
I inwardly nod as I serve and receive a smelly, foul tasting kiss. He won’t start to slow down for a while yet, so he doesn’t notice the strangeness in taste or appearance.
Not in his drink, and not on my face. The face from within, brought out for the first, and last, time.
Written for Friday Fictioneers from the following picture prompt (see here for other stories):
As I pour I wonder, “How many whiskies this evening?”
“Not as many as last night,” someone inside me answers, “Or any night before.”
I inwardly nod as I serve and receive a smelly, foul tasting kiss. He won’t start to slow down for a while yet, so he doesn’t notice the strangeness in taste or appearance.
Not in his drink, and not on my face. The face from within, brought out for the first, and last, time.
Written for Friday Fictioneers from the following picture prompt (see here for other stories):
PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria
Chilling but strangely sad story. Nice take on the photo prompt.
ReplyDeleteSusan A Eames at
Travel, Fiction and Photos
Methinks she has had enough. Well done.
ReplyDeleteSomething sinister going on here. Nice one.
ReplyDeleteHere's my contribution!
Killer story, pun intended.
ReplyDeleteJade Li @ http://tao-talk.com
Holy crow! I guess there really IS a limit. Well-told tale :)
ReplyDelete