Broadcast Mind
She says she's baking your favorite today. Thing is, you can't for the life of you remember what your favorite is. But the type of pie hardly matters when the love of your life is baking it for you.
She hums, like she always does when she bakes, and you try to guess the song. Something by the Beach Boys? Johnny Cash? It's hard to tell when she's as tone deaf as all get out. But it's cheerful, and she's happy. And that's good enough for you.
She serves you a slice on a plain white plate. Uncomplicated, the way she likes things. That's the kind of wife she is. And now you remember that cherry pie is your favorite. It must be, because there's red juice spreading across the porcelain. You pick up your fork and dig in, and it's warm and sweet and-
You nudge the next bite with your fork, but you're still working on the first one. This a new recipe?, you ask. The crust's a little chewy.
You've already swallowed when you realize that the pie isn't cherry. And that crust isn't crust.
It's skin.
You look up and she's knelt on the floor, tearing into the throat of a man. There's a hole in his stomach, about the size and shape of a pie pan.
The fork in your hands is suddenly a shotgun, and you raise and take aim at the back of the love of your life's skull. And as you pull the trigger, you wonder just how many more times you're gonna have to kill her.