A small piece of Flash Fiction (less than 100 words) written for a competition. The prompt was to incorporate a Bic lighter.
I didn’t mean to hurt her
It was easy to fall into the habit of shouting at her after a rough day at work, to criticise the meals she cooked, to take her confidence.
It was all useful material for my novel, about a woman who subjugated herself to a domineering man. She was such great inspiration.
Maybe I overdid it. I don’t know.
Today, they found a pile of ashes on a clifftop with a small blue lighter dropped beside them. She burned my novel before making the leap.
Damn. It’ll take weeks to rewrite. But what a great ending.