House of secrets (Weekend freewrite)

The red liquid looked like blood. But she couldn't be sure - and who has blood in a glass on the table? Gloria shuddered, but the woman was too busy arranging the fresh flowers to be put under the big framed picture of her late husband. Lady Edwina made a show of venerating the memory of her well-beloved, although she knew all too well, he'd been quite liberal when it came to sharing his love. Sometimes forcefully imparting his love upon innocent servant girls. His many indiscretions were common knowledge and most villagers blamed Edwina - 'such a cold and arrogant woman!' - for driving the poor man away.
Then there was the question of his tragic and most convenient death. Burned alive together with a girl from the village in the terrible fire that had ravaged the shed at the back of the garden. The official report stated that the two lovers had been so arduous that they knocked over the gas canister stored by the door and it somehow caught fire. No one dared ask too many questions of the poor widow who on the night of the tragedy was nursing young Mortimer, her son, sick with pneumonia.
After her husband death, Edwina took to wearing black, like a respectable widow, but that didn't fool anybody. She rarely ventured outside her property and that usually at dusk, to visit the cemetery with the boy.
Now, young Mortimer was no longer a boy and, as he clearly took after her father, Gloria was anxious to get out before he came back from his job in the city.
Gloria watched in horror as the old woman, finally satisfied with the flowers, took a long gulp from the glass on the table, before reaching into the purse to give the girl the money for the day's work.

Hugo loved flowers and everyone knew this. Most of all, his wife, who made sure he always had some on the table. Every time she put fresh flowers under the portrait she took the wilted ones to Hugo, in the cellar. It was just one of the many little tortures she had created for him. It always amazed her to see that, even after ten years, the foolish old man still had not got used to her dirty tricks. That fleeting look of disappointment on his face. She sat down on the chair placed in the corner of the room, as far away as possible from the revolting stench of the ragged man chained to the foot of the bed.
'You stink!'
It was somewhat rewarding to see him reduced to this state of profound indignity - Hugo, the once charming man with white silk shirts and just a hint of expensive perfume. Over the past six or seven months, she'd noticed he had lost all interest in personal care. The makeshift shower in the nook beside his bed had running water after all. Not hot, but then he should be grateful to be still alive. She could have killed him just as easily as she had slit the throat of that little whore.
The horror of that moment when he discovered the girl waiting for him under the cover was lying in a pool of blood. Edwina was there, of course she was, and she could have killed him with the same knife.
But that would've been too easy, wouldn't it? The anger when he woke up to find himself in chains, the shouts, the threats, the pleading, the begging.
'Here's to your new life as a devoted husband', she'd said, toasting him with a glass of vodka and tomato-juice, a drink she had never tasted before that night. Not as sweet as revenge, though.

After she was gone, the man stood up from his miserable bed looking intently at the vase of dead flowers. She was right, the flowers reminded him of all he had lost, all the little joys and the big ones alike. Whoever said crying is bliss was right, but there were no more tears left in him, no way to unburden himself of all the sorrow.
He had given this a lot of thought as he didn't want his death to make her happy. Would she be relieved to find him dead? Would that set her finally free? He hoped not! All she had was her stupid revenge. She'd be devastated!
His mind was made up. The first few years, he had hope. Hope that one day his son would be big enough to stand up to his mother and make her release him. Every time she brought the boy down to the cellar he studied his face carefully looking for signs of pity, a secret smile, something, anything. But Mortimer had grown cold and arrogant, he took after his wretched mother. His son was disgusted by him.
His many months of feigned stupor and his increasingly abject appearance had paid off. Edwina had grown careless 'cause she no longer thought he had it in him. The flower vase, he could easily reach it if he tied the thinning blanket in a noose and smash it to pieces on the stone floor.
As he lay on his bed, blood slowly pooling under him, he kept thinking not of Edwina, but of his son. At some point, Mortimer would grow tired of his mother. It was inevitable. An unfortunate fall down the stairs? Food poisoning? But then why would he dirty his hands? Why not let her rot in the cellar - since it was there? Hugo died with a smile on his face and it took his wife two years to figure out why.

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge. Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

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