Stephanie Angelea: The Huntress

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The Huntress

By Stephanie Angelea

Ida Blackwood looked almost human crouched over two dead bodies in the dining room, wearing her new feathered flats and black sequined dress.

“I’ll enjoy watching you two burn in Hell!” she sneered at them, yanking the metal spoons still lodged in their mouths.

That night, the weather was unusually warm for October and even with the air conditioner still running full blast Ida was hot. She shivered from anger holding the empty ice bucket she unwrapped for her honeymoon with Jeff on their wedding night almost three years ago. 

Earlier in the day, she placed it near the microwave oven and filled it with the finest black powder from the best seeded apples grown locally at Jarret’s Orchard. A favorite garnish she used on her famous tapioca pudding. It was an old recipe handed down to her from grandmother Isadora who unfortunately died last month in prison at the age of ninety-five serving three consecutive life sentences for a triple murder.

She chose the recipe carefully adding the mysterious powder of dried apple seeds she ground fresh that morning. A secret ingredient she prepared only for those who betrayed her.

Smiling, she blended in the poisonous powder, remembering all the late nights she spent crying, missing the touch of her husband and the date nights they used to share.

His promotion at work and long hours took him away from her but with it came a six-figure income and numerous perks including “mandatory” travels to beautiful cities around the world and stays at the most luxurious hotels — not that she got to enjoy any of it.

She was left behind to endure the heartache of their crumbling marriage and to understand his continued interest in holding it together despite his deteriorated love for her and badmouthing her bankrupt family.

But Ida pushed all of that aside and concentrated on the dinner preparations, proud of her food choices including grilled tofu, fresh corn, and sweet peas.

Before the dessert, an innocent gesture triggered the obvious answer to a question that had been nagging her for a while and the decision to serve the powdered garnish on the tapioca pudding was positively decided.

Her mother, of all people, cheating with her husband, was too much and she felt something snap inside her watching them exchange nervous glances from across the table. The thoughts of them together infuriated her and made her feel so ugly, her eyes turned as black as the smudged mascara running down her face.

“No one will ever find either of you. I swear it!” Ida promised, dragging the bodies to the kitchen where a sharp hook hung from the ceiling over a drain pail, the knife stood tall, gleaming from the chopping block, and the oven had completed its preheating to her specified temperature.

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