Tonight For Dinner, We'll Be Serving Revenge

It all started when he asked me what size I was.

I was taken back, but he was a friend of my father’s and he was sitting at my dining room table, which to my parents is sacred ground. So, I swallowed my need to ask him why the fuck that was any of his business and told him with a gentle smile, size 6.

The following week came the questions about my height. The week after that, complimenting the rarity of my eye colour, which led to him googling different hue’s of hazel to determine exactly what shade my eyes were. Then, I nearly lost my mind when he remarked I had “perfect lips” while his wife and son were sitting at the very same table.

Oh, but the cherry on top had to have been when he leaned over to quietly ask me if I had any secret tattoos in particularly risque places... I couldn’t eat my lamb that night.

These uncomfortable dinners had become somewhat of a tradition. Our families were leaning on each other after what had happened. Mr. Scott, aka Mr. Asks You Inappropriate Questions, lost his youngest son in a car accident 5 months back. But he wasn’t the only one whose life changed that night. I also lost a sister. She was the driver...

That leads us to these God forsaken dinners. Our two families were mourning together. These shared meals became a routine, at Mr. Scott’s request, might I add. He was a religious man and was keen on forgiveness and friendship, in an attempt “to evade any more tragedy and welcome life back.” I wasn’t convinced though.

My suspicion turned into full-blown paranoia when a piece of paper fell from his pocket as he was leaving. I picked it up with the intention of giving it back, but I suddenly felt compelled to read it. My throat descended into my stomach when I saw the answers to all the disturbing questions he’d asked me that evening.

That’s fucking it, I thought.

At our last dinner, he mentioned that he and his family were going on a trip to Scotland to see some relatives, so I decided to take a little trip myself.

Breaking into their house was easier than I expected, but considering hardly anything ever happens in this town, the no alarm thing wasn’t really a surprise. I made my way through the whole main and top floor, only to find nothing. Everything was annoyingly normal.

I head towards the basement. An unusual office was my last stop.

I choked on my breath when I saw it. There she was. There I was.

A life sized portrait of me hung behind Mr. Scott’s mahogany desk. A portrait that stared right back at me as I looked at it in horror.

A portrait that in her size 6, 5’2, hazel eyed, pouty lipped glory, suddenly blinked, thrust herself from out of the painting and wrapped both her hands around my neck.