Served Cold: Short Story

His eyes opened. Everything was blurred. The room was spinning ever so slightly. He couldn’t feel his limbs. Groggily, he shook his head. His vision cleared. The roof was wood. Why was the roof wood? Where was he?

He moved to get up and was just as swiftly pulled back. Then he realised: his hands and legs were tied to the corners of the bed with rope. He jerked as hard as he could. Nothing budged. He caught a glimpse and his eyes widened.

She was sitting in the dark, barely visible at the edge of the room. Calmly peeling an apple, moving the knife elegantly over the red skin.

Panic grew on his breath. He thrashed about with all his might. The rope only dug further into his skin. He was going nowhere.

She walked up to him. Caressed his hair, shushing him.

She held out a gold ring.

‘Till Death do us apart,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you know what it means.’

She placed it beside his head. ‘Well, you will now.’

She took a bite of the apple. The juice sprayed out with the crunch.

She offered him a bite. He began to cry and mutter incoherently. She threw the apple away.

He began to plead and beg and implore. She could not hear anything he said. All of her was fixated on the spot between his eyes.

The knife gleamed in her hand impatiently. She tightened her grip on the hilt. Raised it over-head.

He was pulling at the ropes with every last bit of his strength, screaming with all the air in his lungs.

She plunged the knife down right between his eyes.

A spurt of red. He stopped moving.