The Last Supper

“Honey, I’m home!” he called out in their routine filmy banter, but received no response. The house was eerily silent, unmistakably clean, unnervingly perfect. Almost by design. And then she stepped out from the shadows, a bloody butcher’s knife in hand, blood splattered across her dress.

“I’m making your favourite chicken. I hope you’re hungry…honey.”

This post is my first try at 55-Fiction, a story told within 55 words.