Little murder stories

Cup of Tea?

My wrist began to grow sore as I continuously stirred the substance in the kettle that sat over the fire, but I didnt dare stop. The hot air from the fire mixed in with the sweet scent of the tea, swirling together as it flooded through my senses. Steam curled out from the warm bronze liquid as it bubbled, dissolving the special ingredient I threw in moments ago. After a while, I finally stopped stirring and placed the lid on top of the kettle to let the tea simmer.

I moved to the kitchen counter and began decorating the cake that had just come out of the oven while I let the kettle sit above the fire for the time being. I piped a fluffy white frosting onto the vanilla sponge, shuffling the frosting bag around the edge of the cake to make delicate swirled peaks. I set the bag to the side and very carefully moved the cake from the stand to a fancy plate to serve. I scrutinised the dessert before me as I tilted my head from side to side. Something was missing.

I pulled on a thin cloak and grabbed a basket. The fresh breeze from outside blew my cotton dress around my ankles aggressively as I stepped outside and into the garden. Dry leaves crunched under my boots as I progressed towards the small garden that sits around the side of the house. Small bushes of berries and medium sizes trees were expertly placed all around the area, making the air smell like the freshest fruits that you could ever imagine.

I kneeled in the slightly damp dirt, right in front of the raspberry bushes. The little berries were like deep red clouds that were perched over a bright green sea. Being careful as to avoid any potential bugs in the bushes, I delicately plucked the little fruits off of their previous home of sharp, thorny brambles.

I picked myself up and made my way back inside the little house when I had gathered enough fruits. I took off my light coat and placed it on the coatrack by the door. The basket in my hands was placed on the kitchen countertop beside the cake. Cracking my fingers, I picked up the berries one at a time and placed them strategically on the cake, so strategic that it was like I was planning an intricate building.

At last, the dessert was completed. A beautiful vanilla sponge decorated with white frosting and fresh fruit sat on the decorative serving plate. Very carefully, I moved my hands under the plate and lifted it off the countertop. I slowly walked into the dining room and placed it in the centre of the small wooden table.

As my hands left the plate, the front door swung open, and a tall figure stepped into the house. I ran out from his line of sight and towards the fireplace where the kettle was.

I kneeled by the fireplace, covering the end on my dress in the soot and ashes that spilled over the brick lining. I grabbed a towel and lifted the heavy kettle off the stand and walked back into the dining room. When I entered the room, I saw that my husband was seated at the head of the table, glancing over the cake and flowers in the centre. I walked over to his side of the table and reached for his porcelain teacup.

The bronze liquid poured from the warm kettle in my hands, spilling into the delicate cup on the table. My husband didnt spare a thank you as I moved to my side of the table to pour myself a cup. I set the kettle on a mat that was on the table and grabbed a clean knife from the kitchen.

The cake was soft as I cut into the sponge, small crumbs latching themselves onto the blade. Each slice lifted effortlessly off the plate and didnt topple over as I carried it to the serving dishes. My husband took his plate and immediately dug into it, much like a predator devouring a lump of meat. I tasted the dessert myself and found it to be quite sweet, the perfect blend of all the ingredients that I used. The cake was fluffy like a cloud but also moist like a dewy flower.

A clatter from the head of the table brought me out of my thinking state. I looked up and saw that my husband had his hands wrapped around his throat, as if he couldnt breathe. The little teacup was on its side, spilling out all of its contents. I looked back up at my husband and the corners of my mouth subtly started to turn up.

My husbands face was slowly going a tint of purple that was only ever seen on people when they are dying, and little red sores sprouted up around his mouth and nose. He made a sickening gurgling sound like a rushing pipe, and I could see blood drip from the corners of his mouth and out his nose. Some people may get an urge to try and save him, but Im not some people. After the way that this vile man has treated me, I think that its only right to get rid of the problem at the root.

The gurgling noise had finally stopped, and a thud alerted me that he was now face-first in the cake I had made. I quietly rose from my chair as I made my way to my husbands side. I tapped him on the shoulder a few times, but when he showed to be unresponsive, I smirked. Then that smirk curled into a wicked grin. At last, I was finally rid of that vile thing I called a husband. No more shall I be tied to this house with him.

Im finally free. Free of him at last.