Today Field

My husband said good night after p0isoning my son and me with a plate of chicken in green sauce, picked up his phone and whispered, “It’s done… soon they’ll both be g0ne.” And I, lying on the floor, didn’t even dare to breathe.
The house carried the comforting scent of fresh herbs and simmering sauce—but underneath it, something sour lingered, something wrong. Ethan moved between the stove and table with unsettling calm, like an actor hitting every mark. He’d set everything perfectly: pressed tablecloth, polished glasses, even the holiday napkins. For Ryan, our nine-year-old, he poured juice and smiled too sweetly.
“Wow, Dad looks like a real chef today,” Ryan joked.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t send us a bill,” I added.
Ethan chuckled, controlled, rehearsed. He claimed he wanted to do something nice. But that was what scared me most. It didn’t feel genuine—it felt practiced. For weeks, something about him had shifted. Not kinder. Just… calculated. Like every word had been measured in advance. Like he was already preparing to disappear without a trace.
We started eating. The chicken tasted fine—too rich, maybe—but normal. Ethan barely ate, just pretended while watching his phone. Ryan chatted about school and soccer, but halfway through, a heaviness crept into my mouth… then my arms… then my legs.
Ryan blinked, confused. “Mom… I feel weird.”
Ethan rested a hand on his shoulder. “Just tired, buddy. Close your eyes.”
I tried to stand. The room spun. I collapsed, the carpet scraping my cheek. Ryan dropped beside me, small and helpless. Darkness pulled at me—but I fought it. I forced my body still, my mind awake.
I heard Ethan move closer. His shoe nudged me.
“Good,” he whispered.
Then his phone. A low voice.
“It’s done. They ate everything. Soon they’ll shut down.”
A woman’s voice answered, sharp with excitement. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Exact dose. It’ll look accidental.”
Her sigh was satisfied. “Finally, no more hiding.”
And his reply was ice: “Now I’m free.”
Betrayal isn’t always loud. Sometimes it cooks dinner, smiles, and waits until you can’t escape.
That’s when it h!t me—he wasn’t just erasing me. He wanted Ryan gone too. I heard drawers, metal clinking, then footsteps returning. A bag dragged across the floor.
“Goodbye,” he said softly.
The door opened. Closed. Silence.
I waited. Then whispered, barely moving, “Don’t move yet…”
Ryan’s fingers trembled in mine. He was still conscious. When I was sure Ethan was gone, I opened my eyes. 8:42. I grabbed my phone, crawled for signal, called 911.
“My husband p0isoned us. My son is alive. So am I. Send help.”
I got Ryan into the bathroom, locked us in, kept him awake. Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
CHECK THE TRASH. THERE’S PROOF. HE’S COMING BACK.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Ryan squeezed my hand. And just when I thought help would arrive in time, I heard the front door handle turning again.
Ethan had come back.
And he wasn’t alone.
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