The last slice he'd ever have

Just last night, Isla never thought of herself as a murderer. But as the dawn broke and Dominic's rage became unbearable, the urge to adopt a new, more sinister identity grew stronger.

"Stay here," Dominic said. "You'll never leave me. Do you understand?"

She nodded, scanning the four corners of the door as she did everyday, for a way out.

"I can't believe it's come to this... It wasn't supposed to be like this," he went on.

To be fair, he was right. Best friends don't usually find themselves millions of dollars in debt over the course of a couple of years. Even more, they don't normally owe that kind of money to the mafia.

"Don't move," he said. "I'm going to take a look outside."

Isla listened to his instructions before finally making the fateful choice she'd been so reluctant to. He'd done enough, she thought. Dom was the one who put them in this position. He made the horrible deal with the Five Families in the first place and kept her hidden from everyone she loved, telling her morning and night just how much he needed her help, while tormenting her at the same time. He'd repeatedly say, "As long as you're at arms length, I'm safe." And at first, it made her smile. But now, each time he'd finish speaking those words her starving stomach would turn and images of her worried mother would do the same, in her head. It was after one of those nights, months ago, that she'd first considered the risky plan for her freedom: she'd kill him herself.

At first, a gun made the most sense to complete the scheme. It was quick, easy, and probably painless. But at the thought of the sickening mess, she changed her mind and considered using one of his feather-filled pillows instead. He'd be sleeping before she leapt over him, so it wouldn't be so bad, right? No, she decided. That was too much for her good little heart to handle. After all, she wasn't actually a killer, she assured herself. The only option left that maintained enough distance, but would still be effective, was poison.

For a moment, Isla reconsidered. But before she let herself rationalize the longstanding torture he'd inflicted, she caught a glimpse of the place where her left thumb used to be. Two weeks ago was the last time she used it, until Dom's blinding madness took it away in one swoop. At that infuriating memory, she mustered the strength to pull her weak body toward the broken rat trap that had been sitting near the kitchen door, collecting dust. She took the poison out of it and hurried straight to the fridge, in case he'd come back soon. There, she found fresh eggs and milk. The choice was clear, she'd use her mother's triple-layer chocolate cake recipe for his demise. She'd made the dessert before and Dom's gluttony led him to finish the whole thing in two days. She was sure he'd never suspect it, or even give himself a chance to, before he indulged in a slice.

As Isla broke open the ingredients, mixing the wet with the wet and the dry with the dry, she kept a steady breath. Two counts breathing in and two counts breathing out. She maintained this until it was time to include the poison. This would be the trickiest part, but she needed to get it done quickly, grinding the granules to a smooth powder and throwing it in with the dry. As she blended the mix at a steady pace, to her surprise and relief, the poison disappeared from sight. And as it faded into the flour, she had the heavy realization that there was no going back.

Isla had expected Dom to return around the time the batter-filled mold was popped into the oven, but he didn't. He came in right as she placed the last of the buttercream icing over the cooled cake. She flattened the top with a wooden spatula and stood there, staring stiffly at the finished product, while he spoke.

"Cake? What are we celebrating?"

"Nothing," she trembled. "I thought you might like it."

And just as she predicted, before he could even drop his coat and the gun slinging from his waist, he served himself a fat slice. His fingers got covered in icing as he transferred it onto the plate and he licked off every bit of it. In what felt like three bites, he finished the whole piece and went right for another. The second he swallowed the first bite, Isla's sweaty fingers clenched and she began stepping away, backward, in slow-motion toward the door.

"Want some?" He asked with an eerie grin and a beady-eyed stare.

She shook her head no and waited for him to suffer. As she noticed herself doing this, she felt bad. Isla knew this was her only way out, but it still felt intrinsically wrong and she was sure that from that day forward, guilt would become a daily companion.

"Did you put anything new in this? My stomach feels strange," he grabbed his abdomen and knelt forward in pain. "Seriously Isla, what the hell?"

She did not respond and kept walking in reverse, with her eyes locked on him.

"What is happen-"

Before he could finish speaking, he coughed up blood and his body went limp. His corpse looked like it belonged there, on the cold and dirty floor.

"Please, please, please," Isla whispered to herself. She was begging for him not to wake up again. After fifteen minutes of "pleases" she finally let out a sigh. It was done. And with this bittersweet reality, she continued stepping backward, never looking away from his eyes, until she was free.