Tell A Tale in 500 Words

La Tricoteuse By Samantha Pope

I knitted a noose for your pretty little neck.



I’m not normally a violent person but, six months ago, you murdered my husband with your silver BMW.

You snapped his spine and splayed his body across the road.



You lied at the inquest. Billy didn’t step in front of your car as if he wanted to die. To Billy, suicide is a sin; he never once contemplated it despite his advanced-stage lung cancer. He accepted God as his master.



The coroner was lazy. It was too easy to accept your version of events. Billy’s life was going to end anyway, wasn’t it? Why waste a pretty, young woman’s life in prison? He probably thought you did the old man a favour. And you were so convincing with your tears and your “I’ll always live with the memories of what happened that night.”



So of course I had to take the law into my own hands. Billy would disapprove but then he always said that, once I had my heart set on something, no one could stop me.



You never noticed me at the inquest so you didn’t recognize me when I started working as a nighttime receptionist at the hotel. The blue rinse helped. Your bosses loved the idea of employing an insomniac widow who’d rather knit and welcome late-night guests than watch TV on her own at home.



You were fond of me, too. In fact, you were so comfortable with me, that you told me about Billy late one night.

“I’m so relieved it’s all over,” you said, as I squeezed the knitting needles tighter. “I’m free to get on with my life now.”



But you’re not.



The gym is empty. No one knows we’re here. Of course you’re tired – that will be the valium I slipped into your cup of tea earlier. I’d have preferred you fully conscious, really, but I know my limitations and you are forty years younger than me.



Recognise this? You thought it was a baby blanket, silly cow. Instead, it’s a personalized knitted noose to slip around your neck. Not to hang you, but choke you to death. I even made it in your favourite colour – soft grey, just like your precious BMW.



Now hold still – you’re in good hands! I’m quite the expert; I grew up wringing chicken’s necks on the farm.



You’re not cooperating. You’re weakening… but so am I. At this rate, you’ll be injured, not dead.



And I need you dead.



Oh dear. Good thing I brought my knitting bag. You’ll be familiar with these needles – you’ve seen them so many times. They have other uses beyond spinning wool.



You’re not going to look so pretty this way but if you won’t do as you’re told, I don’t have much choice.



I’d aim for the jugular but you know what they say:



“An eye for an eye.”



And yours are so pretty.

 


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