I Had It All

Was too fast around that corner. Sitting in blood and excrement. Blood bubbles with each breath. Feeling the pounding of my heart, thoughts begin to wander. Why did she make me wear those fucking overalls? I looked ridiculous. She is dead now, but I still see the sneers of the other children. Would dig the bitch up to tell her what this did to me. So many images, so much pain.

Sarah. She is still there. Havent’t thought of her for so many years. That first date, she rambled on incessantly about reality TV. Hate that simplistic shit and the small minds who buy into it, but tolerated the conversation for the chance to see her tits. She rambles something about knowing someone from “Dancing with the Stars”. I barely even know what she is talking about and care even less. Shut the fuck up and let’s go to your place! The sex wasn’t that great – at least I didn’t think so. Looking at her smiling face was even worse than hearing her talk. So many memories. You laughed when we got on the tube without the London A-Z, even though I repeatedly reminded you on the way out the door. Were you really that stupid, or were you so much in love that it didn’t matter? Stumbling through the city, hearing your laughter behind me. No, it is not fun, you stupid girl. Just stop laughing. Sex isn’t worth this. She might have loved me, but what does it matter, now?

A book about whales. All cut out. What the fuck? She asked for that book for ages. Every time we passed the shop, she would pull on my hand towards it. “Please, Daddy!” I bought it just to silence her, or perhaps for the smile she had as I paid. That smile still makes my heart feel larger than the universe. Distracted by it pounding. She took the book home, lovingly. A week later, all of the whales were cut out and pasted to her bedroom wall. I yelled at her. Scraped them off. Repainted the wall. Her sadness.

Leaving for dinner, I tripped over that step stool she keeps open in the kitchen. Is it really so difficult to put it away. She always wants to be “ready”. For what? An urgent appeal to the tin of biscuits on the top shelf? Always angry to see that stool there. Maybe a symbol of unused potential. Maybe that I just trip over the god-damn thing all of the time. Bitterness.

Mind jumping from thought to thought. Now panic. I haven’t paid the gas bill. They have been harrassing me for months. The last bastard who called was a rude arse. How will it get paid? Another blood bubble, pops and goes down my chin. I won’t have to pay that gas bill. A smile spreads across my face those last moments and through the blood an attempt to speak. “I win, motherfuckers!”

First Attempt at Twitterature

I am experimenting with short stories and in the creative writing course I am taking, there was an introduction to “flash fiction”. I thought I might try to write something within the word limits of Twitter.