05.04.13 | Yana Kazmirenko
Helen opened the window and breathed in the fresh air. Suddenly she heard a scream; she turned to close the window and saw a corpse. Her husband Mike had been lying on the red carpet for three hours. Then the doorbell ranged.
- Helen, could we help our charity unit, - asked an old neighbor Alice Don.
- Oh, maybe next time, - answered Helen. – I am used to paying big taxes.
- You always refuse, - offendedly said Alice and closed the door.
Helen returned to the room. What did she have to do with the body? Would she bury it in the garden? Or she would take it to the forest or dissolve it in acid? Smell of his cigars was still in the air. “Fire!” – sprang to her mind. Helen went to the car for five minutes. “Your car would be your last house” – she thought. She used the matches to fire the car. While the car was burning, she recalled the youth. She used to work in an office of a small company, when Mike proposed her to start working as a curator in a gallery. Women in the last century used to be nurses or teachers, but not curators. Mike was a tyrant in business, his day started from 7 a.m. and finished at nearly 11 p.m. But he was always in a good mood and had always something positive to say. He was a unique manager. She remembered the first success – the exhibition of the sketches by Van Gogh. The irony of fate was that her husband was killed because of the stolen Van Gogh’s last picture from the gallery and now she had to go to court and be punished for someone else`s crime.