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Default Lucy - 09-12-2010, 07:42 PM

Lucy sat by the bed of her dying husband. Some time before, the doctor had left, shutting the door decisively after informing her that there was no hope for her husband's recovery. Lucy had nodded, a single tear rolling down her cheek, before gravely thanking the doctor for all his help in treating her husband's debilitating and mysterious illness. Sometimes, she'd wondered if she had enough strength to get thru another day of this, another day of wondering whether this day would be her husband's last. He'd always pulled thru tho, to spend yet another day and night in fretful anguish.

Lucy's husband had always been demanding, even before they'd married. Lucy would have prefered it if she'd been able to take a few months or even years to live with him, in order to see for herself just how possessive and demanding he was. Sadly, it hadn't worked out that way. Lucy had fallen pregnant and her old fashioned parents had insisted on a wedding. It didn't matter one bit that the child had been stillborn; by then, it was too late to escape. Lucy had by this time found out her husband's true personality; before, hidden before a mask of casual normality.

He'd quizzed Lucy on what she'd done every day, had even rang her up at her work as a florist wanting to know who'd she'd spoken to that day. He didn't believe her when she'd told him that she'd only ever spoken to her collegues, or to customers. He never once hit her, tho sometimes, she'd wished he had. The constant questioning and putdowns were torture of the mental kind, and eventually, they wore her down. Lucy had quit her job and stayed at home to become the kind of dainty obedient housewife that he wanted her to be. Sometimes, she thought of leaving, but she knew that he wouldn't allow her to do this.

Dragged suddenly back to the present by her husband's hacking cough, Lucy took one of his hands in both hers. "Shh, darling," she whispered. "It'll be all over soon, and then you can rest." Soon too, her husband's considerable fortune that he'd been mean with, that he'd never used to buy her presents and was still in his bank account earning interest, would be hers to do with what she pleased.

Lucy felt herself entitled to the money. She hadn't spent her youth in service to this man for nothing. Especially after his latest crime. Lucy, who had managed to forgive her husband for his possessiveness, for his controlling ways, for the way he'd mentally beaten her down and destroyed every single bit of confidence she had, had not been able to forgive this.

Her husband opened his eyes for the last time. He looked at his wife with a considerable effort. "Lucy," he said, his voice hoarse with the effort of speaking. "I must confess to you before I die. I had an affair with your sister."

"I know, dear," Lucy replied. How easy it had all been in the end, with not a single piece of evidence to connect her with her husband's death, not the tiniest whisper of suspicion. "That's why I poisoned you."


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