Hung for Witchcraft

Angelyne reclined on the plush deck chair, staring at the sea. Her glossy curls lay around her in a halo, a few working their way down her shoulders like scarlet ivy. It was a striking contrast to her emerald green satin gown. She was the picture of old Hollywood glamour.

The late afternoon sun reflected on the waves, casting glittering jewels that reminded her of the gown she wore to the Oscars that year. She hated that dress, but she was obligated to show off the work of the "hottest new designer in the industry" -some millennial with an entitlement problem and a chip on her shoulder.

"For every dress she makes, her fashion house donates ten thousand dollars to provide clean water to a village in Africa!" The reporter chirped from the red carpet. "So what?" Angelyne spat at her husband as she struggled to peel off the dress after the after-party. "For each dress she makes she gets $500,000. Where does all that money go? Hypocrite."

Her husband fucked the hot new designer a couple of months later when she did the wardrobe for his next film. Probably out of spite.

He'd be returning this evening after two weeks away, filming the next episode of Netflix's "hottest new series." Everything in Hollywood was hot and new. Except for Angelyne.

She hadn't always been this unhappy. She and Ron met when they were just nineteen. They were so broke and so in love, she didn't want to spend her life with anyone but him. He had come from Michigan to LA to pursue his dream of being an actor- and he was brilliant. With her support and encouragement, he was soon a household name.

Angelyne studied at UCLA, she wanted to counsel abused children. After graduating, she worked as a caseworker while Ron climbed the Hollywood ladder. She loved it, but her career went out the window when her husband's celebrity earned her a stalker. So she became a glittering, medicated bird in a gilded cage while her husband lived his life.

It didn't take long for the love to disappear and the resentment to set in, and now here she was. Divorce wasn't an option, the only way out was either he died, or she died. She opted to try him first.

The gypsy was referred to her by a friend in the circles.

"She helped me tremendously." Angelyne's friend whispered over martinis at some party at some old white producer's house. "The whole thing looked like autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong. It's so fucking fashionable these days."

She turned the gypsy's instructions over in her mind for the three hundredth time. "Everything has to be perfect," the woman told her during the consultation in the dimly lit room, surrounded by crystals and jars of mysterious things- the contents of which Angelyne didn't want to know. "Follow my instructions perfectly, or there will be... consequences."

She performed the first part of the ritual under the full moon the night before and managed to get the blood cleaned up before the help arrived the next morning. All that was left was the incantation ritual, and she needed him for that. She had rehearsed those lines in her mind obsessively for two days now.

"Alexa, what time is it?" Angelyne called nervously into the air.

"The time is four-thirty. And happy murder-your-husband day."

She did a double-take at the black tower.

"What?"

Alexa was silent.

"Angel? You home?" Ron called from the house. She jumped, her heart thumping in her chest. "I'm back!"

"I'm out here!" She called back. Just a few hours now, and she'd be free.

He handed his bags to the valet. "I missed you!" He said with a broad smile. "You're gorgeous..." he growled as he pulled her against him, his hands immediately traveling to her ass.

They dined outside under the cabana and he regaled her with his adventures filming in exotic Canada. "You're gonna love this new series, it's amazing." He muttered through a mouthful of grilled salmon.

"I'm sure." She replied.

After dinner, she sent everyone home early, even the maid. "I'll clean up, don't worry about it." She told her graciously. When she was sure they were alone in the house, she went to the bathroom and cut her hand, bleeding into the sink. She whispered the spell and anointed herself with the oils the gypsy had given her.

"Come to bed, honey," Ron called from the bedroom. His voice sounded strange.

"Nerves." She told herself as she took a deep breath and opened the door to a pitch-black bedroom. "Why is it so dark in here?" She asked. "I can't see anything." The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. She couldn't get the ritual done in the dark, something wasn't right.

"Alexa, turn on the lights."

At first, Angelyne wasn't sure what she was looking at.

Her husband stood before her, a black balaclava obscured his face. "What the hell are you doing?" She demanded in a panic.

His eyes glittered from the eyeholes, and he muttered rhythmically. Her body froze, she couldn't move or scream. He had beaten her to it. This was her damn incantation, and he had stolen it from her like he'd stolen everything else. All she could do was glare at him as he slipped the noose around her neck. Tears of rage spilled from her eyes as she felt herself fall, her neck cracking as she swung above the tile floor.

Angelyne's service was beautiful and full of celebrities. Ron put on the performance of a lifetime, sobbing as the priest delivered the eulogy. Condolences were given and comfort was offered, but eventually, Angelyne's death devolved into cocktail party fodder.

"I heard it was autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong," a blonde starlet whispered to another over cocktails at a party at some old white producer's house. She sized up Ron from across the room with hungry eyes. "It's so fucking fashionable these days."