Too many stories to tell.
She wakes up thinking of this while looking up on the ceiling. Husband has gone to work early and decided to skip breakfast. He’ll get some toast in his new found Mistress, Mrs. Collins. Rounded face but voluptuous figure.
Anyone would have a liking for her but she had to choose a married man. Thirty years of marriage and she learns to cover her eyes of the truth and stick to the man who feeds her. She spends most of her days trying to be accomplish the demands of being a house wife. She’s found a new routine that keeps her from the thought of leaving him. What non-sense, she says. She has an obligation as a wife and she means to fulfill that.
But she held an important role in her town, However, scandalous her marriage was, she decided to put the limelight to other people. She had a knack for story telling and gossiping. She excelled at it. People listened to her juicy tales of neighbours being bankrupt, or affairs seen over the park or Mr. Downing who has a particular liking for… men. It is after all, 1980s where this idea is as dreadful as marrying someone with a low social strata.
She chose wisely. the one she dreaded the most and the ones, who she felt was weak. They were “targets”. One she did not like. She did not care of the implications as for her, this is merely a distraction. All she did was hold parties, for their birthdays and anniversaries, all the while, seeing his husband grab someone else arse, all the more stories she told. It’s like some sort of revenge for her. It gave her, some, satisfaction.
After all the laughters and the story telling night, she would always sit by the mirror and see herself. And how contented she is, at least for now. She asked the maid to grab her some night cap to give her a good night sleep as she rarely gets one, nowadays.
And as she drinks, she remembers all the stories she has told everyone. As none of it is real. All lies and she thought how amazing she is to come up with stories as quick as lifting a finger.
Halfway drinking wine, she laughed and laughed. But she also coughed and coughed. Actually, coughed more than laughing. Then there’s this blood in her mouth and she choked. And choked and it was difficult to breathe.
She looks at her goblet and remembered how she ones talked about her maid in one of her stories. Of her being a paid whore at one point before accepting the job as help in her household. Yes. She… she.. is there. In front of her, while she was crippling on the floor trying to gasp for air.
Blood is everywhere but Ms. Pemberton just looked at her, with no remorse and with so much content as she gave her last breath.
This will be a great story.