The Last Story

The murder was not a surprise.

On the sixth straight holiday, the supermarket did not even have banana or bread. That night, they had cracker and cheese for dinner, and Bounty chocolate, the old relic in the fridge untouched till then. The kids did not even notice. The man and the woman tried the television later, without luck.

It had started fine, the holidays. The picnic in the hills was good. A terribly disappointing movie after signalled the change of season. The man or the woman got irritated with the kids and their smartphones when they went out for an expensive dinner.

None of their friends called. They did not call anyone either. They kept their cool at his folks’ place, at hers too. On the way back home, one of them had muttered, “Bloody religion, have you noticed how eager people are to wish each other Happy This, Happy That, but can you talk about it, really talk, I can’t even talk about my own bloody religion!” The other thought, “Go on, talk about it, talk about my lot, isn’t that what you want to talk about? Before that, let’s talk about me, or you, bloody me, bloody you!”

The body was found…