My Fiancé Fed Her My Dog

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At the party, my fianc lost the drinking game.

I asked him, for the tenth time, where my dog had actually gone.

He didnt answer. Instead, his girl best friend, Bridget, leaned across the table to bail him out.

I ate him, Norma, she said, her voice dripping with a lazy, drunken giggle. Honestly, you raised him so well. The meat wasn't tough at all.

She flashed a bright, mocking smile. "Look, its just a dog, right? Tomorrow is your wedding. Why don't we have Justin dress up as a puppy to make it up to you? Consider the debt settled."

The room erupted into a chorus of raucous laughter.

Bridget laughed so hard she practically collapsed into Justin's chest, her hand trailing down his collarbone. "You guys have no idea. When Justin plays the good boy, hes absolutely adorable."

Among the drunken roars, someone threw out a crude joke.

"How does he play dog for you, Bridget? Does he wear a collar? Or does he get down on all fours and lick your hand?"

Bridget's eyes lit up. She grabbed the speakers tie, pulling him close. "You dirty dog, you just want all the details tonight, don't you?"

The guy, clearly wasted, challenged her. "Come on, rock-paper-scissors! If you lose, you have to tell us exactly how sweet Justin is when hes begging."

Bridgets cheeks flushed pink. She grinned and threw her hand out.

More cheers. More drunken shouting.

Suddenly, Bridget shrieked, "Damn it! I actually lost to you!"

The group leaned in, reeking of cheap beer and expensive champagne, swaying on their feet.

"Spill! Spill! How does he do it? How sweet is Justin when he's on his knees?"

The men roared. Bridget opened her mouth to speak, but a large hand clamped over her lips, pulling her back against a broad chest.

"Cut it out," Justin said, his voice low but firm. "You've had too much to drink. Stop making those kinds of jokes."

The room went quiet, though eyes continued to dart back and forth. Some of the guys exchanged whispered chuckles, sharing a silent, knowing look that excluded me entirely.

I stood up and grabbed Bridgets arm, pulling her wobbly, drunken frame upright.

She looked at me, a sloppy grin spreading across her face. "Norma... what's the matter? Want to know the details too?"

The next second, a deafening crash shattered the tension.

Someone in the back yelled, "Holy shit!"

Bridget hit the floor hard. A pool of blood and spilled champagne began to snake across the tile, glittering under the dim bar lights.

Justins eyes went wide, the alcohol instantly draining from his system. He threw himself onto the floor, pressing his hands against her bleeding temple.

"Call 911! Get an ambulance!" he screamed, his voice cracking. Then he glared up at me, his face twisted in fury. "Are you fucking insane, Norma? A blow to the head could kill her!"

I didn't blink. I picked up the last unbroken champagne bottle from the table, pointing the jagged neck directly at his face.

"Tell me," I whispered, my voice trembling but cold. "How did my dog end up in her mouth?"

For a long time, Justin was the only other person who had a key to my apartment.

When I went on a two-week business trip six months ago, I gave him my spare so he could check on Winston, my Bichon Frise.

But when I came back, the apartment was silent. The only thing left of my dog was his favorite squeaky yellow duck, sitting lonely on the living room rug.

Justin had stammered through an explanation. He claimed Winston had slipped past his legs when he opened the front door, running off into the night. He said he had searched the neighborhood for hours but couldn't find him.

During those weeks, I nearly lost my mind. I printed hundreds of flyers, plastered them on every lamppost, and spent my nights wandering the dark streets, calling Winston's name until my throat was raw.

My grief had blinded me. I never noticed the gaps in his story.

Until tonight.

Earlier in the evening, Bridget had casually mentioned how much she loved exotic game. Then, wrinkling her nose, she added, "It's a shame most dog meat is so tough. You really need one that's been pampered and fed high-quality kibble to get that tender, savory flavor."

At that moment, a jagged line of suspicion began to connect in my mind.

As the night wore on and the drinks kept flowing, their filters crumbled.

When I finally asked the question I had buried deep in my chest, I felt the sudden, rigid tension in Justin's posture.

Now, the room was in chaos. They scrambled to lift Bridget, rushing her out the door. Someone shoved me hard in the rush, sending me stumbling back against the wall.

Even as the wailing of the ambulance faded into the distance, Justin never answered me.

But the silence was its own confession.

Winston. My sweet, gentle Winston.

Had Justin deliberately handed him over to Bridget to be slaughtered?

The party dissolved, but I didn't go back to my empty apartment.

Instead, I drove to the new townhouse we had just boughtthe place we were supposed to move into after our wedding tomorrow.

His parents were there, setting up decorations. They looked up in surprise when the door slammed open.

"Norma? What are you doing here at this hour?" his mother asked, holding a roll of silk ribbon.

I didn't answer. I walked straight into the kitchen, bypassed her, and picked up a heavy, twelve-inch chef's knife from the block.

His parents gasped, backing away. "Stop, stop! Norma, what is wrong with you? Where is Justin? Shouldn't he be with you?"

But the grief and white-hot rage burning in my chest stripped away any capacity for politeness. I swung the knife, forcing them to retreat into the hallway.

The first slash went directly through our giant, glossy engagement portrait hanging in the living room. The canvas ripped with a satisfying, screeching tear.

The second strike chopped into the custom-engraved wooden sign bearing our initials and tomorrow's wedding date.

Third strike. Fourth strike.

I poured every ounce of my physical strength into destroying the brand-new velvet sofa, the mounted television, the pristine coffee table. I smashed, kicked, and hacked until the living room was a battlefield of stuffing, shattered glass, and splintered wood.

His parents were shaking, huddled by the front door. "Norma, what did Justin do to you? Tell us!"

His father frantically dialed Justin's number, but the calls kept going straight to voicemail.

His mother wrung her hands, staring at the ruin. "The house... our beautiful house is destroyed! How are you two supposed to get married tomorrow?"

"We aren't," I said. My voice was a hollow, raspy whisper.

I let the knife clatter to the hardwood floor and walked past them, stepping out into the cold night.

Just as I crossed the threshold, his fathers phone finally connected.

"Dad, why the hell do you keep calling me?!" Justin's voice blasted through the receiver, frantic and angry. "Bridget is hurt! Norma cracked her head open with a bottle! Nothing is more important than Bridget right now!"

"Justin, Norma is here! She's lost her mind! She destroyed the townhouse!" his father yelled.

There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line.

"Good," Justin said, his voice dropping into a hard, venomous register. "Tell her to get to the hospital. She owes Bridget a formal apology, and she's going to give it to her tonight."

I sat on the curb under a flickering streetlamp, lighting a cigarette. It was the first time in my life I had ever smoked.

I had Winston for seven years.

I got him when he was just a tiny, white puffball that could fit in the palm of my hand. He was incredibly intuitive. Every time I had a bad day, he would sit quietly by my side, tilting his little head, watching me with those big, dark eyes.

The moment I would look up at him, he would jump into my lap, frantically licking away my tears.

He was my shadow, always waiting by the door, resting his chin on my palm the second I walked through.

And six months ago, he was suddenly gone.

I had blamed myself. I thought I shouldn't have gone on that trip. I thought it was a terrible stroke of bad luck.

But it wasn't an accident. It was a cold-blooded sacrifice. All because Bridget wanted to satisfy a sick, twisted craving.

By the time I finished my eleventh cigarette, my fingers were numb. I stood up, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and felt my phone vibrate.

Justin's voice was sharp with irritation.

"Where are you? Bridget is awake. Do you have any idea how close you came to killing her? It was a joke, Norma. You're an adultsince when can't you take a joke? Get over here right now, apologize, and maybe we can salvage this."

I remained silent, listening to the ambient noise of the hospital wing over the line.

"Norma?" Justins voice grew suspicious. "Are you listening to me?"

He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "You're really not speaking? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum? Over a dog?"

I finally smiled. The sound that came out of my throat was dry and hollow. "Which hospital? I'm coming."

But Justin was cautious now.

He hesitated for a long time before asking, "Where are you? Let me come pick you up instead."

He arrived in a taxi twenty minutes later, still reeking of stale champagne and sweat.

I stood under the streetlamp, my face a completely blank slate.

He climbed out of the cab and studied my expression warily. "Norma... are you really this angry?"

I looked up, locking my eyes onto his. "Winston was in my apartment. How did he end up in her kitchen? Did you take him, Justin?"

His face went pale. He shifted his weight, refusing to meet my gaze.

"It happened six months ago. Why are you still obsessed with this?" He waved his hand dismissively. "If you love dogs that much, I'll buy you a new one. A white one, a black one, whatever pedigree you want."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a soft, placating tone.

"He was just an animal, babe. Is he really worth throwing away our future over? You made a massive scene tonight. Bridget wanted to call the police the second she woke up. I had to agree to some ridiculous terms just to get her to wait for your apology. Come back with me, Norma. Don't make this uglier than it already is."

I tilted my head. "Ridiculous terms? Like what? Promising to do her laundry for a month? Or giving her strip dances whenever she gets bored?"

Justin's face darkened, his jaw tightening. "Stop... don't be disgusting. I'm trying to save our wedding. If she files an assault report, how do we get married tomorrow? You created this mess."

He let out a long, heavy sigh.

"Whatever. I don't entirely blame you. The guys drank too much and took the jokes too far. But... Bridget did say that after we're married, she doesn't want you coming to our group hangouts anymore."

His phone buzzed.

Justin pulled it out, and as he read the screen, the color drained completely from his face.

"Norma... did you destroy the townhouse?"

I stared at him, my voice flat. "You should be glad I didn't see you when I had that knife in my hand."

His face went from pale to a mottled, angry red. "What the hell is wrong with you?! Over a fucking dog, youre ruining our lives?!"

"Tell me," I demanded, stepping closer. "How did Winston end up on her plate?"

Justin closed his mouth. For a long time, he couldn't find his voice.

Finally, he muttered, "I thought your first question would be whether I was sleeping with her. I guess I really matter less to you than a dog."

He kicked a plastic orange traffic cone on the curb, looking at me with deep, bitter disappointment.

"Since you've decided to make a disaster of this, I guess the wedding is postponed."

I went back to my old apartment.

Sitting alone on the edge of my bed, I sent a mass text to every single wedding guest, letting them know the ceremony was canceled.

When I put the phone down, the silence of the dark room pressed in on me. The guilt and grief were suffocating, wrapping around my throat like a vice.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed, the bright screen cutting through the darkness. An instinctual wave of dread washed over me.

It was a friend request from an unlisted number. I accepted it, and a message immediately popped up.

[Wow, Norma. You really are pathetic.]

[Justin has been playing 'good boy' for me since before you two even started dating. Technically, I'm your predecessor.]

[You're petty, sensitive, and completely dramatic. You never fit in with our group anyway.]

I read the texts, but I didn't reply. My gut told me there was more.

I tapped on her profile, scrolling back through her archives. Sure enough, I found a post from exactly six months ago.

The background was unmistakably my kitchen. On my counter sat a simmering Dutch oven.

The caption read:

[The little Bichon Justin prepared for me. Way sweeter and more tender than some stray mutt~]