Ten years of quiet fury came down to a single vial and a plate of warm steak.
Writer’s Prompt
The ceramic plate burned through the folded bar towel in Marci’s grip. Prime rib, medium-rare, swimming in dark au jus. In her apron pocket, the glass ampoule felt cold against her hip. Tasteless, odorless, and swift enough that he’d be slumped over his steering wheel before hitting the interstate.
Ten years. Three thousand six hundred and fifty nights of watching her mother stare blankly at the pastel wallpaper of Oakridge Manor, humming lullabies to ghosts. All because of six words delivered over pot roast: “I’m tired of you. I’m through. Goodbye.”
Booth four was tucked beneath the amber glow of a faux-tiffany lamp. Arthur sat alone, thinning silver hair catching the light, reading glasses perched low on his nose. For six months, Marci had refilled his iced tea and cleared his empty bread baskets, hiding behind dyed black hair and a nametag that read Chloe. He never looked higher than her apron strings.
She paused in the service corridor, out of view of the floor manager. Her hand slipped into her pocket. The ampoule cracked cleanly between her thumb and forefinger. She hovered the clear liquid over the steaming jus. Just two drops. That was the sentence passed by a decade of grief.
Marci stepped out. Arthur looked up as she set the platter down.
“Here you are, sir.”
He didn’t touch the silverware. Instead, he took off his glasses, set them beside his knife, and looked directly into her face. The casual indifference she remembered was gone, replaced by a hollow, searching exhaustion.
“You have your mother’s hands, Marci,” he said softly.
Her breath caught, the room narrowing to the space between them.
The plate sits untouched, and the silence hangs heavy. What happens next? Tell us your ending in the comments below.