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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2128295
Rated: E · Fiction · Contest Entry · #2128295
writing prompt contest, word count 744
What Will the Neighbours Think?


It was a grey and overcast day. I'd been waiting for a day just like this with its threat of rain and lack of sunshine beating its radiant rays down on me in admonishment. The killing needed to take place when there was less of a chance to be seen by the neighbours.

My husband's oft repeated words, "What will the neighbours think?" rang through my head with amazing clarity. Always, it was "What will the neighbours think?" He applied it to the silliest situations like making sure the car was spotlessly clean or wearing the right tie. I wouldn't even think of going out without my hair brushed and properly coifed! He drove me crazy with his constant nit-picking. And, that is why I'd chosen this day to finally put an end to a situation that had been bothering me for quite some time.

I abhorred the job that I had to do because killing wasn't something that came easily to me. I'd spent days trying to arrange the timing and the tools so that I wouldn't have to expend a lot of energy on my upcoming task. I'd gone to the garden shed when I'd been sure I wouldn't be seen and scanned the tools. I liked the hand scythe with its long, curved blade that would put an efficient end to my quarry but knew that it wasn't the right choice because it would be difficult and obtrusive. Instead, I chose the hand rake because it was smaller and easier to grasp, plus its tines were deadly sharp, unlike the scythe with its rusty and ragged edge.

While my husband showered, I quickly dressed in old worn clothes that suited the occasion and they could easily be disposed of when I'd completed my task. I hurried downstairs to the kitchen and grabbed the rake and hid it beneath the long white shirt, one of my husband's cast offs, and tucked it into the elastic waist band of the worn grey jogging pants. I waited patiently for my husband to make his way into the kitchen. I knew he'd probably have an apoplectic fit when he saw my attire.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he demanded as his face turned red and mottled.

I didn't react, "It's all right, dear. I just wanted to show you something that has been bothering me for quite some time and I know that you have been complaining that the hired help can never do it properly. Just follow me. It won't take long before all your worries about what the neighbours will think, are over."

I knew that it wasn't done in our up and coming neighbourhood with its well-trimmed trees, manicured lawns and hedges. The shiny Mercedes and sleek Jaguars in the driveways hardly bespoke of what I knew that I had to do to get the job done properly. He followed me and then stormed past me to see what was behind the hedges, where I was leading him. He kept glancing furtively from side, looking for the watching eyes of his neighbours, of that I had no doubt.

I stopped in the middle of the lawn. I could see from the disdained look on his face that he wasn't impressed.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"I wanted to show you how much I care for you. I made sure I waited for an overcast grey day like this so that the neighbours wouldn't be outside to see what I'm about to do."

"And what exactly is that?" he asked sarcastically.

My right hand had been toying with the handle of the rake beneath the shirt and I gripped it and slowly brought it out for him to see and then I dropped to my knees and drove the tines deeply into the soil and dug them in until I managed to uproot the deeply embedded weed which was one of the many eye sores on the property that irked my husband.

I turned to look at my husband's reaction and it wasn't what I expected. Instead of anger, I saw perplexity and sadness. It was unexpected.

Instead of shocking him, he shocked me when, he too dropped onto his knees. He reached for my arms and I realized I'd forgotten how strong he was as he pulled me to him and then grabbed me by the throat. Too late, I realized that I'd created the perfect time and place for a murder, my own.
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