writing_shadows

Georgina pulled the third little black dress from the wide screen-door wardrobe and held it up in front of herself in the mirror. “What do you think of this one, darling? I shall have to buy a new hat, of course. Something wide-brimmed, I think; perhaps with a veil.”

She glanced behind her to where her husband lay on their bed. She'd been choosing outfits for half an hour now and his expression was one of despair. Her smooth crimson mouth flexed into a smile as she threw the dress down onto the duvet and crossed the room to her vanity table. It was a beautiful one; deep mahogany, with six silver-handled drawers and a gilt mirror. He'd given it to her on their first wedding anniversary. “Pearls would be the traditional accompaniment,” she remarked, easing open the enamelled jewellery box. “I always think diamonds are a bit too flashy for funerals.”

Her husband still made no legible reply; just a vague muttering of discontent. Pouting a little, Georgina went back over to the bed and climbed to sit astride him, dressing gown slipping away to reveal creamy white thighs. “Don't you agree, darling? I could always wear that beautiful necklace you gave me for my last birthday instead. You always said it made my eyes sparkle.” He wheezed something again and Georgina leaned in closer to better hear him, the tips of her soft curled hair brushing the exposed skin of his chest. “What was that, darling? I couldn't quite make it out.”
“Why are you doing this?”, he repeated, beads of spittle foaming from his swollen lips.
Georgina shrugged, laughed a light tinkling laugh like smashing a crystal-cut glass. “Oh, that. You know how it is, darling: keeping the wolf from the door, and all. You've always turned a blind eye to tax breaks before.”
The man turned away from his wife, trying not to meet her eyes. With sharp fingernails she took his chin in her hand and pulled him back to face her, a diamond gleam in her sainted expression. He tried to speak again.
“What's happening to me?”
“Well, darling, I'm glad you asked. You're in the middle of something they call lactrodectism. By now your lymphatic system will have carried the venom from the muscles into the bloodstream, depositing toxins into all your nerve endings.” As she spoke she trailed her free hand along his left arm, over the swollen spot where the needle had found its home. “And in just a second...”
Suddenly he convulsed in a scream of agony, abdomen cramping as the poison spread. Georgina dug her nails in and hung on for the ride, bending to press a cool cheek against his chest and hear the thudding of his tachyacardic heart. As the tremor passed she wiped the sweat from his brow and stroked his greying hair, crooning soothingly. “Shh, darling. Shh. It'll all be over soon. Not long now.”

At the end of the first hour, he started trying to scream for help. But the house was set apart from the others nearby, and their neighbours were used to hearing cries from the bedroom at any rate.

Hours two and three Georgina spent putting the finishing touches to her funeral outfit. Something elegant and understated was called for, she decided: clean lines and subtle curves. She toyed with the idea of having something made, but decided that would look too ostentatious.

By the start of the fourth hour Georgina's husband had all but given up, his nervous system almost dissolved in a shriek of acid. She was sat next to him on the bed, satin pillows propped up behind her, flicking through a copy of Vogue. There was an article of hers in that month's issue. “Married Life: The First Five Years, by G. Perkins.” He reached out to grab her arm, his hand a contorted claw. She glanced over at him patiently. “Everything alright, darling?”
“Bitch”, he spat, a death rattle gasping in the back of his throat.
Georgina smiled. The last light went out of his eyes and his arm went limp in her lap. After setting down the magazine on her beside table she examined his face critically, took his wrist between slender fingers to feel for his pulse.

Satisfied, she reached for the telephone next to her alarm clock and dialled a familiar number.

“Billy?” Hot tears sprang stinging to her perfectly painted eyes and her voice caught in a painful note of heartbreak and panic as she spoke. “Billy, I need you – I don't know what to do, we just lay down for a nap – it's Roger, I just woke up, I think he's...”