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— Brian, darling, I’ll just take something from your study, — Catherine, his “perfect wife,” said softly. She fixed a lock of hair, leaned over, and kissed her husband on the cheek. Everything looked flawless: a suburban house, the sunset glowing behind the curtains, the smell of fresh pie from the kitchen — a picture straight out of a 1960s American ad.
— But darling, you know that women…
— Don’t belong in a man’s study, — Brian finished the phrase, adjusting his tie and smiling with the very confidence that his “perfect marriage” was unshakable.
Catherine gave a soft chuckle, as if agreeing, but her eyes flashed with a faint shadow of mockery.
— Catherine… — Brian frowned slightly, but didn’t turn around, still studying his reflection in the perfectly polished silver coffeepot.
Behind him, the lock clicked quietly.
— Yes, darling? — her voice came out soft, almost sing-song.
— You remember the rules… — he smirked, staring into the glass of amber whiskey. — A man’s study is sacred territory. Women have no business there.
— Just for a minute, — her voice sounded even, almost innocent, — and then I promise I’ll do for you what you’re too shy to tell your friend about, — Catherine tilted her head slightly, as if hinting at something ambiguous.
Brian chuckled smugly, glancing back at his reflection again, but something uneasy flickered in his eyes. She had said that line with too much confidence.
There was a thin sound of a key turning in the lock.
Stepping inside, Catherine slowly closed the door behind her and turned the key all the way. The metallic click was so sharp that Brian flinched, though he tried to hide it behind a strained smirk.
— Catherine, you… — he turned, holding the glass in his hand, — this all looks… unusual.
She, however, turned her head toward the wardrobe and took a few confident steps. Her heels tapped distinctly against the parquet. Catherine opened the wardrobe door, and from within — among perfectly pressed men’s suits and polished hangers — she pulled out a rifle. Cold metal gleamed in the soft light of the lamp. Her lips curved into a light, almost playful smile, which only made it more terrifying.
— Oh yes, baby, long time no see, — Catherine ran her hand along the rifle as if it weren’t lifeless steel, but her old friend. Her fingers lingered on the bolt, as if she felt almost intimate pleasure from it. Then, unhurriedly, she turned toward the massive desk, on which two old computer monitors stood, and her smile grew wider.
The monitors, square and mute, came alive as if they had been waiting just for her touch. Dim green letters danced on the black screen.
— Well, you dumb piece of junk, — she whispered, as if speaking not to her husband behind the door, but to the very heart of the study, — it’s time to bring me back.
Words appeared on the screen:
“WELCOME, CATHERINE SMITH. PLEASE PUT DOWN THE WEAPON.”
— Oh, so now you’re not just some computer that a “silly woman can’t handle”? — Catherine drawled, raising the rifle a little, almost playfully, — But then again, who am I?...Full story (10 800 characters - 2 parts + add. images) is open to subscribers here or on Patreon