Maggie started murdering my ex-girlfriends. I came home from work to find the first one hanging in our entryway. Her face was blue, and her tongue was stuck out in a na-na-nuh-poo-poo sort of way. Her name was Rachel and we’d been together for a couple of months back in Arizona.
I found Maggie in our bedroom—she was painting watermelon slices onto her fingernails and listening to Come a Little Bit Closer, by Jay and the Americans. I asked, “Why is Rachel hanging in our entryway?”
She turned and glared. “So, you recognize her? Interesting,” she said.
“Well, I didn’t at first but her hair—”
“Oh! So, you remember her hair?”
“I—Jesus, I am going to get something to eat.” I walked into the kitchen and nearly fell headfirst into a chair. I looked back to see what I had tripped on. It was Becky. There was no mistaking her with those big Billie Piper lips. She had half a dozen knives in her chest and belly, as well as two in her neck. “GODDAMMIT!” I cried.
Maggie strolled in and leaned against the doorframe.
“What’s wrong, babe?”
“Who is this?”
Maggie’s eyes opened wide and she lifted a hand to her lips. “Oh, really, you don’t recognize her.”
I looked down at Becky and crossed my arms.“Never seen her.”
“Don’t recognize those lips?”
“Don’t you dare lie to me!”
I stayed silent. She waited, looking at me the way one corpse might have a staring contest with another – Becky and Rachel, for example.
“Fine, yeah whatever, I remember her. I mean, come on, that was like eight years ago!”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Long time to remember somebody,” she mused.
“Oh, for—goddammit. What are we going to use to chop veggies with, huh?”
Maggie motioned to the sink to show me two new Saruto-style blades.
“Those are better,” she said, “Forget the old knives.”
“Fine. Clean this up and I am going to cook something.”
Maggie walked off.
“Lunatic,” I muttered and opened the fridge to grab some leftover chicken, but I had to leap backward as a body hit the floor. “Gretchen?” I frowned down at her. I’m sure she would have waved, but she was dead.
I stormed out of the kitchen and into the bedroom where I found Maggie scrolling through Instagram. “What am I supposed to do with all of these bodies?”
She flicked the screen, scrolling, and scrolling before she sighed and looked up.“Oh! I don’t know, why don’t you fuck them?”
“Jesus, what the hell did I do to get you so riled up?”
“Hm, oh, I don’t know. Maybe THIS!”
She turned her phone to face me. I got closer and peered at the bottom of the screen. It was a picture of my ex-girlfriend Trish—she was presenting a new art project at a gallery in New York City, and just below it was my name, right beside those dreadfully-twisted two words: LIKED BY.
“Oh, come on,” I said.
“She’s in the bathtub,”Maggie said.
“You’re a grown woman,” I said. “This kind of jealousy is childish.”
“Mhm,” she said.
I looked around the room, hoping that a beam of light might shoot down and that the voice of God would come to my aid and say something like, “He’s right, you know.” But there is no God, so I asked Maggie, “What am I supposed to do, then?”
“Why don’t you go get that acid stuff they use on TV.”
“Sure, yeah, and what if someone calls the cops? Huh? Did you think about that?”
“I’m sure they’d understand,” she said.
* * *
Thank you for reading! If you’d like to learn more about me and what I do, check out my personal website. To receive the months’ flash stories in your inbox plus updates on my other work, sign up for my newsletter.