Fur

Anne cursed under her breath as she looked out of the bar, ready to leave. The pouring rain had begun to flood the empty streets, reflecting the dim light of the streetlamps. She knew her satin heels would be ruined, leaving her no choice but to remove them.

She shoved them in her purse before she stepped outside, grabbing her umbrella from the stand. She declined a ride from her friend, insisting she would be fine.

Very few people were left at this hour, the narrow street ahead of her empty. Anne flinched as the cold water numbed her feet, putting up her black umbrella. The heavy drops plinked off as she tightened her fur scarf. The fur, the most recent gift from her husband, was made from real fox, one of her talking points at the bar. Her friend had adored it, running her fingers through the thick, brown accessory. It had paired well with Anne's black cocktail dress, another purchase from her husband's account.

He had been lucky enough to receive a generous fortune every month from his family's diamond company, along with an abundance of diamond rings that often adorned Anne's finger. He also loved Anne unconditionally, making it his only job to bring her dresses made of the finest silks, the most expensive watches that could be worn, and furs and leathers of the rarest variety. He found them a home large enough to fit all of their trinkets and treasures, and staff to care for it all.

He had.

Anne couldn't help but smirk to herself. It had been so easy to remove him, it was almost funny. Though she'd closed her eyes as she pulled the trigger, she knew what had happened. All she had to do was bury him and the gun in the hole that used to house their pool. The workers would fill it in the next morning, forever concealing him in the earth. The gardeners would come the day after, giving her the rose garden she'd craved for years. She would report him missing the moment they were done.

Anne laughed out loud at her own brilliance, now a few streets away from the bar. She stopped walking as she found herself coughing violently, her laughter lost in the empty night. She stood there for a moment after, trying to regain her breath.

She looked around, only to see the rain increasing still. She coughed once again, tightening her scarf a bit more before continuing down the street.

She kept her head down, watching the water ripple from her bare feet and the rain drops. She thought of the money, all the money. Insurance, the family business. Her husband's family had no reason not to trust her. She knew she could get away with murder. His at least. There was a shockingly small amount of blood after she shot him. She wiped up what she could with toilet paper before flushing it down the toilet. As extra insurance, she dropped a bottle of red wine over the scene, letting the liquid mask what was left. The maid would arrive the next morning and clean it up.

Anne looked up from her wavering reflection, jumping a bit as she saw a dimly lit figure standing in the middle of the road in front of her. She didn't think much of it, until it raised a hand.

Anne froze, starring at it. There was almost no pinky, just a small stub on the left hand. Her husband had the same hand, a victim of the knife game, when he was younger.

A street light that had previously been out began flickering, illuminating his face for mere seconds before it was hidden again. It was a man, grinning at her. A man in a suit. He stood in the rain, though he didn't seem wet.

Anne could feel her chest tighten, trying in vain to stop her self from coughing. Between fits, she glanced and saw the man laughing.

Her chest ached hard when she was done, yet she tightened her scarf and started taking careful steps towards him. The streetlight finally died, once again hiding his face in the dark. He turned and walked straight into an alley, without a word.

Anne started running, knowing her house was only a few streets away. As she ran, she pulled on her scarf. Three streets away from her home, her cold feet stumbled over each other, flinging her to the ground.

Merely scraped, Anne stood up quickly, only to start coughing again. Her throat felt dry and scratched, her head dizzy. She slowly collapsed down onto the pavement, finding her lungs empty. She sat in the the shallow water until she was done, and tried to breathe. She stood up, and started to run again with shallow breaths.

She found her self stopping four more times to cough and breathe, before stumbling onto her street, Each time pulling tighter on her scarf.

As she hacked all the air from her lungs outside the front doors of her home, she though about the man on the street. Her husband. Who she'd killed a few hours prior.

She opened the front door of her empty house, pulling her scarf as hard as she ever had. She locked the door, still yanking on her scarf.

Anne could no longer see the whole room around her, her vision blurred and out of focus. She used all of her strength to keep her self from coughing, tightening the fur on her neck to restrain it.

She was no longer aware of her wet feet and body, not even realizing that she'd dropped her umbrella entirely at one point. She staggered to her bedroom, stumbling four times as she climbed the stairs. Anne didn't flinch as she walked through the wine she dropped earlier, not even as shards of the bottle punctured her cold feet.

As Anne stumbled into her bedroom, smearing blood and wine on the white carpet, she started coughing again. As she reached to tug on her scarf, she almost thought she could hear her husband's laughter.

. . .

When the maid arrived to the house the next morning, she found Anne's body. Though there was a faint white line encircling Anne's neck, there was no sign of her fox fur scarf.