Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 223

This week's picture prompt is by Peruvian graphic artist Enzzo Barrena. He has some incredible abstract art. This one is called Broken Flower. 

Took a while for me to get started with this little tale, but once I did it flowed. A nice dark tale this week.

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here. 

There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.

Bleeding

Angie was broken. At least she felt like she was – her feelings on display for all to see and pick at, like birds of prey over road kill. He’d humiliated her again. It was bad enough having to put on a show for their social circle that all was fine in their marriage, but when he chose to flirt with the young women right in front of her it made a mockery of it.

She made her excuses and went to the rest room. It was an elaborate affair with a luxurious seating area and mirrored walls – standard for this opulent stately home. She stood and stared at herself in the mirror, and took out her comb, primping at her hair in an attempt to make herself feel better. She inspected the aging lines of her face. It didn’t matter what she did they were still there and increasing, but she wasn’t prepared to go under the knife to try and erase them, you couldn’t cheap time or death.

The door went behind her and one of the young pretty things her husband had been letching at came in. She was young and nubile and had spent the evening making eyes at him. Barely giving Angie a glance, the girl locked herself in one of the cubicles.

Angie stared at herself in the mirror, her anger rising. She hated girls that thought they were invincible in their perfect little, half emaciated bodies, coloured and cajoled into something popular media considered desirable, but was in fact sickly and woefully lacking. Not enough food meant their brains were malnourished and their ability to understand was limited. It made them selfish, spiteful people who believed they had a right to anything they wanted, including other women’s husbands.

The comb in her hand snapped under the pressure of her rage. She looked down at the long handle that had now come away from the main comb.

She heard the toilet flush and moved away from the mirror to stand in front of the door to the occupied cubicle. She heard the lock turn and saw the door begin to move inwards.

The girl inside was still looking behind her, and flicked her hair back as she turned. Angie stepped in front of her causing her to cry out.

But the sound was cut short by a grunt as Angie wedge the comb handle up under the girl’s ribs, cutting her air supply and ability to call out. The girl looked down to see the nub of comb handle protruding from the middle of her dress and blood seeping out around it.

Angie pushed her back into the cubicle and sat her down on the toilet, where she slumped back, her eyes glazed.

Angie pushed the end of the comb handle in further to conceal it, and cleaned up the few drops of blood that had fallen. Then she locked the cubicle door and used the toilet as a step to climb up and squeeze herself over the top into the next stall.

She dropped down and straightened her dress, composing herself before stepping out even though no one had entered the rest room.

Angie returned to the mirror, wiping dust off her silk dress. There were a few creases, but no marks. She put the remains of the comb into her clutch purse. Her face was flushed, so she ran her wrists under cold water and dabbed at her forehead with it, to bring her temperature down. Within a few minutes Angie looked fit again.

She dried her hands and returned to the ballroom, sitting down at their side table and graciously accepting a drink from the waiter’s trays. Her husband returned to the table too and smiled at her, taking her hand and kissing it. His apology. Her rage appeased, she accepted it.