Flash Fiction: March 11, 2025
The writing prompt: A housekeeper finds out one family is not who they say they are.
The antebellum homestead was growing smaller in the distance as Chloe sat paralyzed in the back of the cart. Ropes bound her wrists and ankles together so tightly that she had started to lose all feeling a mile back.
It was beautiful, really. The sun setting over the Woodruffs’ estate, shrouding all of the death Chloe had brought upon it—almost polishing it, restoring it to its former glory. While she had always been one of the outlier slaves owned by the Woodruffs, Chloe knew that what her ears overheard provided priceless leverage.
Each morning when Mrs. Woodruff went to market, Chloe took her position in the parlor. She dusted the armoire on Monday mornings, the grandfather clock on Thursdays. Her routine could only be described as perfect. It was all a flawless act, and Chloe was the star of every show. Crouched in the back of the cart rolling toward the gallows, she could still remember the last time she played her role like it was yesterday.
When she could no longer hear Mrs. Woodruff’s horse-and-carriage, she dropped her feather duster. Before it could make a sound on the wooden floor, Chloe was already in full flight, stealthy gliding to the other side of the manse.
Racing pulse. Sweaty, cold feet.
Heavy breathing, relishing the risk of being caught.
Heartbeat, heartbeat, then nothingness–the end of the chase, the end of the thrill, and the end of her life as she knew it, all at once.
A hard bump on the trail suddenly jerked Chloe back to the present.
Her hands and feet were now as numb, rivaling only the pain she felt on the day of that last act. It had all happened in such a haste that Chloe wasn’t sure if it had even happened at all – Mr. Woodruff finally catching her under the burning spotlight, eavesdropping on business matters best suited for after dark. The severing of her ear, the blood – so much blood – and the sight of it dropping to the ground like a piece of meat.
The gallows were now large enough that she could make out small details, even as daylight faded on the horizon. Chloe wanted to feel guilt for everything that had transpired after that act.
The jealousy of the Woodruffs replacing her role at the homestead.
The rage that ran through her veins after procuring the lethal oleander.
The satisfaction she felt upon delicately mixing it into the batter of her cake.
Even as she watched Mrs. Woodruff and her two daughters take their last breaths at the dinner table that fateful evening, she felt no remorse. Regret was nowhere to be found. Anxiety was absent. The only thing Chloe recognized was the feeling of failure when the noose tightened around her neck.