A Wicked Weave – Short Story

He looks down upon the twisted body of the woman who once professed in front of the whole world he loved, and smiles.
“Debra didn’t deserve such a volatile end, not after all she’d repented near the end,” she’s says as she grips his tightly wound shoulder. He pulls himself free of her grip and turns to her, his eyes wide and fierce, Debra’s blood still freshly running down his face.
“You wanted this, not me!” He growls, tight long his already clenched fists tighter. “She was a vile woman who only wanted more of what she already had. Her death is nothing but cathartic for the very world itself.”
“That’s being a little over dramatic isn’t it?”
He takes a stern step towards her, gripping the dripping tire iron tightly in his hand. “How have I been so blind!” He hisses.
“What is you’re fevered imagination saying now?”
“You, I should’ve see it a long time ago, I should’ve noticed how much you are her were alike. You’ve played me, haven’t you?”
“Played you?” She says, taking a step backwards as the blood drains from her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I…”
He lunges forward, grabbing her by the throat and slamming her against the wall. “You used me, you played with my emotions. You wanted Debra gone and you wanted me to suffer for it. Why? Why betray us both like that?” He says as he tightens his grip on her throat. Suddenly she stops struggling and smiles.
“Why not, that the real question,” She says as she drives a blade up into his chest. His grip slowly loosens, as does the glimmer of life in his eyes.

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