By Gabrielle N. Rippel

“Rebekah you owe me!” his screech echoed off the deserted cobblestone street as I struggled to gain my breath.

“You cannot hide from me forever!” he threatened and even from this distance the menace in his voice sent a chill down my spine.

Why did I steal his damn cat? I curse myself knowing I could have easily avoided this mess, even though we both know this has nothing to do with that cat. The footsteps are growing louder behind me, my heart begins to pound and my breath becomes shallower my fingers begin to tingle. Somehow my feet continue to propel my body farther, trying to put as much distance between me and wrathful Bradford DuPont. Instantaneously my stiletto snags between the cobblestone pavers causing my body to fall forward just as a gun cocks behind me.

“Games over sweetheart.” Bradford bends down to say in my ear, I can smell the bourbon on his lips. I brace my hands against the pavers trying to right myself as my satin green Dior cocktail dress billows around me.

“Oh Bradford…” I start before I taste the familiar copper wetness trickle in my mouth. I rest my heavy head in my hand wincing at the gash from the pavers above my brow, watching as a single drop of blood escape through my fingers and splatter across my satin skirt. This can’t be it. I thought as Bradford uses the barrel of his gun to lift my chin and meet his gaze.

“Truly is a shame to waste such a pretty face, I don’t know what Bill saw in such a conniving little witch such as yourself. Thank God he never lived to see the day you wasted his good name and fortune.” Bradford bravely boasts gearing up for what he believes is his victory, he lowers the gun so that it lines up between my eyes. “No middle-class divorcee from the Midwest has any business being with us.” I raise my hands in defeat playing into his game.

“Bradford…” I hear my voice shake, “you don’t want to do this.”

“Shut up!” he wipes the sweat of his brow and I can’t help but wonder how many times his found himself in the exact situation before, was I his first? Had he done this a dozen times? That’s the one insufferable thing about the upper-crust, the outside world would never know the extent of their damage–when you have more money than God, you can play the devil at ease.

“Any last words?” he presses the metal barrel against my forehead.

“You still don’t know after all these years, do you?” I ask as I straighten my back and square my shoulders sitting as properly as I could.

“What are you talking about?” He shifted in his evening tux, I wonder if the partygoers I was hosting figured out we were missing yet or if Dalí kept the champagne flowing as instructed. I meet Bradford gaze and can’t help but smile as I recount the past decade that led us to this very moment.

“It was June of 1947, my ex-husband had just divorced me three months prior,”

“I asked if you had any last words not to share your autobiography.” He shoves the gun against my head.

“Trust me Bradford, it’s worth listening to. As I was saying, he had just divorced me for being “unfaithful” as he put it. I always thought that was a funny way to label rape, so I was happy to see him go, content with the idea of being alone forever to my mother’s dismay. Then I saw Bill Harkness sitting outside the five and dime. I recognized him immediately from the New York Society pages and, in that moment, I saw a possibility for a new future.”

“Yeah I bet you did.” Bradford interrupts but I ignore him.

“It only took three weeks for me to win Bill’s heart, and by Labor Day we hosted our charming but wild wedding, to the strong displeasure of his parents and their societal connections. But I didn’t care, I was happy knowing my future was solidified and I’d end up on this very cobblestone street leading to the home we purchased Holiday House.”

“Yes, lucky me a white trash cat thief tramp like you moved in next door, Bill deserved better than you.” He scoffed.

 “Overtime I grew fond of Bill for who he was as a person and not just his inheritance, although the Standard Oil money almost made your insufferable crowd worthwhile. Almost.” I sighed. “I was sad when his heart gave out in ’54, but with his death my new future began.”

“Gold digger.” Bradford spat in my face. At some point he crouched down listening to my tale.

“No dear, the money had nothing to it. Bill was just a moving chess piece, my most valuable chess piece really, because he tied me directly to you.”

“Me?” Bradford clearly shocked, he lowers the gun in confusion, “What you want to marry me next to bleed my money dry?”

 I tilt my head back briefly in unexpected laughter and slip my hands into the pocket of my now blood-stained dress.

“You asked if I had any last words, so listen. In March of 1947 a much younger Bradford DuPont made his way to St. Louis looking for a good time. Instead, he found what he assumed was an unsuspecting young girl who went by Rebekah Pierce at the time.” I pull a concealed pistol from my pocket and aim it directly at his head.

“So yeah, I may have dyed your cat green, but you raped me.” I cock my gun. He tries to regain his posture and aim before a deafening Bang! envelopes us.

“Sorry about your cat.” I swap the pistol for his and place it by his lifeless body before walking away from what the papers would call a “Suburban Suicide of One of the Last Great American Dynasty’s.”

The above story was written for NYC Midnights Flash Fiction challenge