Nuptial Nightmare
I saw you walking down the aisle
You were wearing your mother's wedding dress
The distance between us seemed to go for miles
Once you were done with that matrimonial marathon
You walked up beside me and smiled
Then you turned toward my best friend
And recited those stolen vows to someone else
They're stolen because they belonged to me
I was supposed to be the receiver
You were the quarterback
But I don't know much about that football crap
A tear slipped down my face
The pain was too much to bear
From the nails on my toes to the follicles in my hair
Then I woke up.
You were beside me
Your chest rising
Falling
Rising
Falling
Then I realized that it was all a nightmare
Its rider trampling into my dreams
Revenge Is a Two Way Street, Part Two
“Today marks the ten year anniversary of the Shandon murders,” said the newscaster. “As some off you might remember, Owen and Lalah Shandon were brutally murdered in the elite Los Angeles area. The murderer has still not been found. If you have any information, call 1-213-MURDERS.”
Isabelle changed the channel on the television, saddened at the actions of her old self. She had given up the life of an assassin, found God, and co-owned Purity with her best friend Shannon. As she continued to cut up some vegetables and some tears fell, which may or may not have been because of the onions, two bulky arms wrapped around her waist.
“I love you,” a deep masculine voice whispered into Isabelle’s ear.
That voice belonged to her husband, Michael Mitchell. She met him at the grocery store, and everything tumbled from there. The only sad part was that when they got married, most of the attendants were from his family and not hers.
“Hey, babe,” responded Isabelle. “Whatcha need?”
He didn’t respond, and his arms suddenly got tighter around her waist, so she turned. His eyes were glazed over and his chest was covered in blood. He dropped to the ground and there was a girl standing behind him. She was speechless. She didn’t even hear the girl come in.
“Fate got your tongue,” retorted the girl.
“K-k-k-k-Kelleigh?” asked Isabelle.
“Yeah, that’s right. You said to remember you, right, Karma? Or should I call you Isabelle?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to ask a question. Why? Why did you kill my parents?”
“Because they weren’t your parents. I am.”
Kelleigh was the one that was speechless this time.
“You’re my what?”
“I’m your mother. Would you like to go down Memory Lane?”
“Sure.”
“Your parents used to be a duo of assassins named Claw and Talon. Their first job was my parents. I was 39 weeks pregnant with you when they attacked and instead of killing me, they cut you out of my uterus. They took you and raised you on their own and left me with this scar,” said Isabelle, rolling up her shirt. “I can’t have another child thanks to them, so I killed them. It’s kind of a generational curse.”
One large scar went across her stomach, marring her flesh with ugliness.
“No, that can’t be true. They wouldn’t do something like that.”
“Think about it, Kel. They both had red hair and your hair is blonde, like mine. They have green eyes and you have blue, like mine.”
“OK. That just means that Hitler would love us. That means nothing, which means that I have no remorse in doing this!”
Kelleigh pulled out a knife and threw it at Isabelle’s throat. Isabelle caught it right before it hit her carotid artery. The two assassins bounced, mother vs. daughter, Fate vs. Karma. Isabelle was a little bit rusty, but she still had style. She took the knife that she was cutting up vegetables with and threw it at Kelleigh’s thigh. Her aim was a little bit off, so it hit her knee. Kelleigh winced in pain and tossed a throwing star into Isabelle’s stomach, the weapon going through her abdomen and hitting the wall.
“Goodbye, mother.”
ᆞᆞᆞᆞ
The funerals of Isabelle Matthews-Mitchell and Michael Mitchell was sad, to say the least. There were only five people there and they were Shannon, Michael’s mom and dad, Wylie Quixote, and…Kelleigh. Halfway through the funeral, Kelleigh’s phone rang loudly, playing the lyrics, “My neck, my back, lick my--” before she hit the “Accept” button. She left the church and stepped outside.
“I have a job for you,” said the caller.
“What is it, Rhode,” responded Kelleigh.
“It’s Mrs. Runner to you.”
“Fine, Mrs. Runner, what is it?”
“It’s a girl, 13 years old.”
“Name?”
“Kylie Quixote.”