Last breakfast | A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

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The tragedy occurred between seven and eight in the morning. The sun barely filtered through the slats of the blinds. Helena was more anxious than usual as she prepared breakfast.

She had endured too many years of shouting, belittlement, and bruises hidden beneath makeup. All she wanted was for this nightmare of a marriage to end.

In front of her was a plate with a perfectly toasted piece of bread, covered with a thick layer of strawberry jam, and a steaming cup of black coffee. In that dark beverage, Helena had dissolved the contents of a small vial: a deadly poison.

The heavy footsteps of her husband, Ricardo, echoed down the hallway until he reached the dining room. He entered the kitchen with his usual scowl. Without greeting his wife, he sat down abruptly at the head of the table.

She brought the plate to him as if she were a restaurant waitress, and he took the cup of coffee with his hands.

Helena held her breath. Ricardo lightly blew on the steam and took a long, deep sip of his coffee. His eyes flew open. The effect was almost instantaneous; the cup slipped from his fingers, smashing on the floor, and his body collapsed onto the table, Ricardo’s face covered in jam.

After watching him die, Helena ran out of the kitchen: she grabbed her leather purse and the car keys. As she left, she felt that she could finally breathe again. And once free, she would drive without looking back toward her true home.