How long had she been standing here? That was the first thought that went through Miranda’s mind when she saw that she was standing by a dead woman. She wasn’t sure that she had meant for the other woman to die, but she was hardly upset that she was gone.
The other woman was, in fact, her own mother, but the relationship between the two had never been great. She was forty-four now, and happily lived on her own in the remote farmhouse. Her mother had always wanted grandchildren, and was never tired of telling Miranda that she was doing everything wrong. Apparently, a man was going to make her happier, and fill the void that had sent her to this remote location.
Miranda had considered that this location was so remote that her mother would never come to visit. She was only going to have to put up with that phone calls telling her to get out there and find a man. She definitely did not want a partner, and wanted only to be alone. The idea that she was a loner was something that her mother simply did not understand. Miranda was just happy blundering about her own house and losing herself in her own work. It was not unusual for an entire day to just disappear because she had her head in a book, or on a page she was writing.
Earlier on that day, the doorbell had rang and a mother had been on the other side of it. Miranda had been leaning against the door frame as she listened to her mother telling her about a singles night that was going on in the neighbouring village. She had not wanted to invite her inside, but somehow she found herself asking her in for a cup of tea.
That was when the criticism of what she was eating, or not eating, came into the conversation. Diet choices were always going to be poor when you kept forgetting what time it was. A common trait among writers, or so she heard.
Of course, this was followed by the whole criticism of her general appearance. You know, how was she supposed to get a man looking like that? Where was the make up? Why was her hair not styled perfectly? Not to mention the whole clothing scenario, as most of her designer outfits had been relegated to the wardrobe.
There was no telling when it was that Miranda had actually snapped. The best bit was, she could not actually remember when, or how she had actually done the deed. All she knew was that now she was standing in a pool of blood over a very dead woman.
Thrown back into writer mode, Miranda ran to the computer and fired up Google. Her search? How to get away with murder.
Written for Dan Alatorre
My character was: A courageous 44 year-old woman, who comes from a comfortable background, lives in a remote farmhouse and tends to lose track of time.
And my setting was: on top of a dead woman
I am not sure that this actually shows hatred, as such. I am not sure if it is Miranda hating her mother, or just hating being disturbed. Or maybe it is her mother who is doing the hating. To be honest, I hadn’t actually decided but just hope that the emotion would come out.