I clutch the developer’s letter tightly, my knuckles snow white. The words stick in my throat. A hard ball of fury ignites inside my stomach.
‘Surely they can’t force us out, my love, we have been here 30 years.’
I had danced for you in this room, clumsily removing clothes as you averted disbelieving eyes. Hot shame burned through me as I tried to salvage our fledgling relationship. I had danced while you lay on the ground, scarlet blood oozing from your gaping chest.
I hear the trucks approaching. I swallow handfuls of pills and dance one last time.
Written for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 word story inspired by a photo prompt.