My girlfriend gives me flashcards of romantic things I’m supposed to say
Channel: Scary Stories
Date: 2023-03-20

My girlfriend gives me flashcards of romantic things I’m supposed to say

Look, when Ella told me she liked role-play, I thought the wind had blown a winning lottery ticket into my lap. She had this husky voice, which I dug, and these killer hips, so I just necked the last of my whiskey and said, “Fuck it, I’ll try anything once.” 

She explained she’d write the scenario out on these colour-coded flashcards, which, incidentally, I’m REALLY wishing I’d hung onto right about now...

The idea seemed simple enough: storm over to her place and say she’s mine forever. She’d clasp my hands and beg me to forget about her, insisting she couldn’t stomach the guilt of betraying her husband, Frank.

I’d kiss her, softly at first. Then, once the room began crackling with romantic tension, I’d toss her over my shoulder and haul her upstairs into the master bedroom.

I figured she’d read too many Colleen Hover novels and needed that dash of spice. But hey, who was I to judge? My buddy Rick is into ladies with giant feet. Whatever revved her engine was fine by me.

And just between us, it was actually kinda…*stimulating*.

Afterward, as I pulled on my jeans, she rolled over in bed and said, “You get a glowing review for that performance.”

“Weren’t so bad yourself” I said, grinning over my shoulder.

“How would you feel about an encore?”

With that, we were off to the races. Each week more cards arrived—again, REALLLLLLYYYY wish I’d filed them away or something—which I memorized before driving over to her place.

In Ella's scenario, I was the side piece who wanted a relationship with her character but couldn’t have one because of her controlling, unsupportive spouse who was always away with work. Anytime he departed for a ‘conference’, I’d sneak over there and recite smooth lines until she forgot she ever uttered the words, “I do.”

However, as the story progressed, those scripts became more and more…intense. Soon, my character was on his knees begging her to run away with him, insisting he’d do anything—absolutely anything—if it meant they could be together.

One night, a CRAZY detailed ‘script’ arrived by post. I needed to pin Ella against the wall in the downstairs lounge with my hips, alternating between kissing her soft neck and whispering how I’d happily crack her husband’s skull open. Meanwhile, she’d bite her bottom lip while moaning, “No, please don’t hurt him.”

For some reason, this needed to take place beside the bookshelf. She actually underlined that part.

I thought that session might have served as an explosive series finale. Until one week later, when my partner in crime had me drive us to a nearby ravine and mime dumping Frank’s ‘murder weapon' (a metal rod stashed inside an old suitcase) while Ella fought against me, her long nails gouging my neck and forearm.

I am not kidding when I say she almost got us killed. As I stood beside the edge and watched the suitcase crash against jagged rocks as it dissolved into the gloom, she tackled me from behind. I toppled backwards into the cold dirt, my top half dangling over the chasm.

Vying for the Oscar, Ella remained in character, pummelling me with both fists while shrieking, “NO, NO, HOW COULD YOU?”

Beneath me, dirt clods broke apart as the ledge collapsed.

At the very last second, I rolled away and pulled us both to safety, breathless, terrified, my pulse up between my ears. I couldn’t move, I could barely speak. There were tears in my eyes and my lip was all busted.

Imagine my reaction when Ella came at me with a flurry of kisses…

As I dropped her off that night, still trembling and ghost white in the rearview mirror, I decided enough was enough. To hell with Ella and her ‘method acting’ bullshit. I blocked her number so that I could move on with my life, maybe even marry a nice country gal.

Was I shocked when my ‘ex-girlfriend’ appeared on the six o’clock news? Absolutely.

I was sitting beside the counter in a diner over on Queen’s Street, enjoying a cup of coffee. “Hey, turn that up,” I said to the waitress, pointing at the TV in the corner.

The female host announced a development in an active missing person’s case. Ella, the victim’s grieving spouse, just revealed her secret lover, a.k.a. me, had threatened to murder her husband on multiple occasions. Through tears, she explained to a sea of reporters how, fearing for her life, she’d secretly recorded our steamy encounters. Claimed it was for ‘her own protection’.

Cut to my voice, accompanied by the most unflattering picture they could dredge from my Facebook page, insisting I’d murder the bastard while she repeatedly begged me not to.

The report shown footage of a police crew excavating a suitcase from a ravine—the same one Ella made me drive her to that night. Inside was the metal rod she claimed I'd used to crack Frank’s skull open. What’s worse, three construction workers had spotted my Volvo skulking around the area around the time of the disappearance. Frank's body was still currently un