Sweet Little Lie
A short story
“Did you eat the last slice of my birthday cake?” Her eyes bore into mine unblinking, waiting for an admission. “No,” I retorted, with a sharp edge of certainty that shocked even me. The lie tasted good on my tongue. So did the cake.
She slammed the fridge shut and stomped out of the kitchen. I quickly pulled out my phone, opening the front camera to check my mouth for crumbs and my teeth for evidence before following her into the hall. Our aunt made the cake, especially for my sister’s garden party. It was a triple-layered chocolate Guinness cake, slathered in cheese cream frosting and heavily dusted with cocoa. I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since my first slice yesterday afternoon.
“Mum!” She squawked from the bottom of the stairs like an enraged bird. “Someone has eaten the last piece of my birthday cake!” My sister’s plea for mum’s involvement stemmed from the need for sympathy. Mum ate like an impoverished orphan from a Dickens novel, surviving on watery porridge. She wasn’t a suspect. When the cake was served, she acquiesced and accepted a sliver, which she left untouched on her plate. I ate that too. Seeing my aunt’s hard work go to waste would have been wrong. Good food was hard to come by in this house. I was one burnt jacket potato away from a breakdown before I succumbed to my greedy desires.
Mum appeared on the landing, wringing her hands in disbelief that someone could do such a thing. “Let me ask your brother.” She hurried into his room and returned to confirm that he had not eaten the cake either. “It must have been Dad,” my sister wrongly deduced. “Where is he?” She demanded. “He’s at golf, honey,” Mum responded with a soft intonation. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding.” Ever the pacifist. I watched as my sister snarled and set her jaw. She was stubborn and assertive but always able to diffuse her anger appropriately.
“Can’t I have anything that’s mine?” She screeched. We allowed her question to be met with silence. She balled her hands into fists and released an almighty scream that roused my brother from his video games. My mum and I exchanged glances of concern. “He won’t get away with this,” she threatened while heading for the garage. The rest of us tailed behind.
She made a beeline for the golf clubs dad had left behind, selecting a hefty wedge that she smashed straight through the driver-side window of his beloved Jaguar. My eyebrows raised involuntarily, my lips parted slightly in awe, and the rest of my body flinched from the sound of the impact. Mum was statuesque and my brother was appalled. She let go of the wedge as though it were searing her hands and it clattered at her feet. She turned to us in disbelief at her actions. Maybe the porridge wouldn’t have been so bad after all.
Reader, it has been an incredibly busy few weeks. My brother got married, we marked the fourth anniversary of when my Dad died, and in 2 days time I fly to Rome for a ten-day Euro trip and wedding. Finding pockets of time to write has been a struggle, and I’m not certain the words would come even if I did sit down at my desk waiting for them. Taking breaks from creative work is hard.
Fiction writing is where my heart truly lies and I wrote this ‘flash’ (fiction under 1000 words) piece last March. It was in response to a writing prompt that I can’t remember the details of, but this is the first time it’s been published. I hope you enjoyed. I am thinking about weaving more fiction writing into my Substack - is this something you’d like to see? Please share your thoughts with me! Good writing thrives on feedback.
