We All Have Our Roles To Play
This is my punishment, she said, for sleeping with the French maid. I have to wear this costume and stand here for eight hours. God, I had no idea how much high heels hurt! I’m rather digging the stockings, though; I always did think I had nice calves.
The gas mask is to show how noxious my behavior was. Whatever. I can’t think of anything more toxic than our non-relationship itself.
The rope is in case I feel like ending it all, she said, a smirk playing across her lips. I don’t think I’ll need it, though: the sheer embarrassment might be enough to cause my death. Maybe I should just bash my head against those rocks.
I’m not even doing this because I love her. I don’t. I never have. But her daddy pays the bills. Her daddy hires the help. Her daddy is in love with me. And he’s promised me a Swedish nanny next time.
Well, I’m still waiting for my “real” Margaret Locke site to emerge from the mounds of red tape it’s buried in ever since it was hacked earlier this month. In the meantime, I figured I’d better start posting here, lest y’all think I’ve fallen off the face of the Earth!
This week’s Flash Friday Fiction contest asked us to drum up a 150 (+/-10) word story based on this photo prompt. Oh, and we had to include a death. I opted for humor over tragedy; what do you think of my result?