Little Lies

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“Mac! Come help me.” I elbowed the front door open and carried the shovels and hoe into the hallway. He shuffled out of the bedroom in his bathrobe, his hair wet, clearly freshly showered. “Is your stomach worse?”

He groaned and clutched his side. “Yeah, I don’t feel so good.”

Exaggeration. Two points plus a bonus point for the bad acting.

“Alright. Go rest, I’ll bring you something for it.”

He shuffled back to the bedroom and closed the door without another word.

I lugged the equipment to the backyard and dropped it next to the rolls of turf. Luckily the yard wasn’t big; sixteen square metres, give or take. Doable.

Gazing at my lemon trees, I took a moment and contemplated the yellow fruit, so cheerful and bright. Then I closed my eyes. I would miss them, keenly, but the birds were chirping a tune I recognised. A tune of freedom. Calling to me. The choice was clear.

I locked the front and back doors, then went into the kitchen. Humming the tune, I poured a glass of water, shook some pills out of a bottle, then prepared another cup of water and made sure the powder in it dissolved completely.


A sliver of sunlight cut across the bed as I crept in; he hated sleeping with the blinds open. No spotlight on me now, hey? He was under the blankets, a smile of smug contentment on his face, breathing deeply. There was no need for the pills after all.

As I gazed at his face, I felt myself waver. For this man, who’d held my heart so preciously in his hands for so many years. But now? The hands were no longer loving, or tender, and my pain meant less than nothing to him.

I wiped a tear from my cheek, the last I knew I’d ever shed for him, and brushed his hair away to expose his neck.
I gave the syringe a good flick and a squirt, and with a little pressure and a little prick, the needle slid in, smoothly.

“Betrayal, Mac. I’ll give you ten points for this one.”
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