This week I will be posting flash fiction pieces I have written within the past year for a great writing collaborative that is now laid to rest. My dear friends over at JuiceBox Confession and Navigator, Equator birthed LT 2.0 and in appreciation for it, please enjoy.
These fiction pieces could be true for anyone. Isn’t there sometimes some truth for you in some of the fiction you read? Read these character’s harsh realities and tell me if you feel their pain.
Beatrice winced her eyes shut tight. She was ready to see the sound of her heart falling to the tiled floor, shattering into a million pieces. The double strip, a sure sign of the beginning. He was going to leave.
Daniel, a man of routine and instruction and of rules and regulations. A man of calculated risks and ponderings and of worse case scenarios. He had the plan all down pat. He had looked at this picture from every single possible angle. When he got home. He would start his own beginning. He was going to leave.
Beatrice held her own and used her own momentum and love and desire to turn the cogs. Each wheel click moving another click of motion. The intricate clockwork of rotations and cycles leading to something bigger than her. She knew from that moment that Daniel came home and started his own beginning that she never knew when the clock would strike. Or what the clock would read, for that matter.
Daniel, a man of routine and instruction and of rules and regulations. He knew his math was good. He was being logistical. He was finding his own way. When the double strip story trailed off her tongue in the sing-songy way it had twice before he let his emotions cloud the reason. Objective became subjective. His mind couldn’t function that way. It was messy and hazy. It was the beginning, again. Again. Again. Again.
Beatrice saw in his eyes a patterning of a spiral staircase. pupils circling the center and spinning wildly out of control. She reeled and pulled. She worked like a fisherman working his nets working each rope as to not lose her precious breadwinning catch. Her passion for her trade, for her love, was slippery rope slipping through her fingers in a frigid squall like night lost at sea.
It was the beginning, indeed. The beginning of very hard times.
I pretend I care. She thinks adding a deeper level of intimacy will make me get of harder. It won’t.
I lower my chin below her hairline and as my lips graze her skin “…..Amanda…”. Mostly I’m just saying it out loud as to commit it to memory.
Placing her gently on the bed I crawl over her and tug on the pull string of the bedside table lamp. The room goes black.
And like the switch that was turned off my mind turns on to Rachel. In my mind I’m with Rachel. This woman, ‘Amanda’, has the same slender legs as Rachel. She has the same flat backside as Rachel. I can tell this prostitute is self conscious of her flat butt, just like Rachel.
She starts to talk to me and I tell her “Shhhh, quiet baby.” I don’t want her to dilute the barely nearness I’m getting to Rachel. Rachel wouldn’t talk. She would just experience it.
Amanda quiets and lays back. Her breasts fall to the sides of her chest and her stomach has a belt of stretch marks, each a telling of a child born. I ripple my fingers over them and let out a heavy, deep sigh. Just like Rachel.
I run my fingers up her trunk past the curve of the side of her breast and over her neck up the side of her face and into her loose curly hair. My mind flashes to the late of the summer days and I can just see Rachel on a walking trail up ahead of me. She turns around quickly and her curls…oh, her curls just make me ache.
I grip on to Amanda’s hair and pull her head back start to kiss her jawline. My other hand searches down the other side of Amanda over her belly button, over her hair, in between her legs, down the inside of her thigh. Then its over. I lose it. I go flaccid and pretend play time is over. It didn’t work, again.
I give Amanda money for her time and walk this poor confused woman out the door after much insisting that she didn’t do anything wrong.
I head back to my bed and crash onto my pillow which quickly becomes saturated with the ocean of salty tears that are now pouring out of my eyes. Rachel is gone. She is dead. My wife is dead and I just can not move on. No matter how many prostitutes might look similar to her, none of them have that unforgettable quirky mole on the inside of their thigh. Rachel is dead and she’s never coming back.
I roll over, I set my alarm clock, I go to bed. Rachel is dead.