Sugar

by Mia Ballard

And so, the plan to kill Dean was born not of vengeance, but of survival. It was the primal scream in the face of an existential crisis, the decision to cut off the tumor that threatened to consume me from the inside out.

I no longer feel the need to dim my own light to match his dull glow.

I oftentimes think about digging him up just to see him again.

I wasn’t a murderer—I was just a woman wronged.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” I whispered, leaning over him, my voice soft but deadly. “You manipulated me, broke me, and now look at you—broken, bleeding, finally feeling a fraction of the pain you left me with.”

If I don’t take it daily, I will stick my head in the oven like Sylvia Plath.”

It was not a friendly smile; it was more of a grimace. But of course, he was a man, so he didn’t notice this.