Sorry if my language offends, but today I’m gonna say screw it and stop worrying about getting my piddly little short stories published. Everyone writes short stories, especially flash because they are easier than novels and novellas.
Now that my novella is on it’s way to being published by the awesome European Geeks fam, I’m done. I’m not gonna tear myself up receiving rejections from little nuggets of stories that aren’t even 5,000 words. I’m tired of hearing “You’re story is great and we really like it, but it just doesn’t fit” or “we have something else similar already.”
Maybe it’s just one of those days, maybe I’m better at writing longer more in depth stories. I don’t really care anymore.
So here’s a little piece of me to read if you like, if not, fuck it.
I used to feel safe here. This enclosed space blocked out everything. I could brush my hands over the dense fibers of thick carpeting and forget it all. No one came looking for me here.
But not today.
Even you follow me here today. I can’t clear my head staring at the row of shoes neatly placed against the wall space. Every buckle, every strap reminds me of you.
You knew how to angle a buckle just right when you whipped it on my bare skin. Flat enough to keep from cutting, but hard enough to leave a mark I’d carry for days. I didn’t get the buckle very often, or the strap. It doesn’t matter; your hands bruised me as efficiently.
The array of clothes dangling over my head reminds me of you. I let the fabrics dance on my fingertips as I swing my dresses around on their hangers.
The scarlet cotton empire reminds me of your angry face, pinched in at different places and sagging in others. I glance at a silk sienna I’ve worn once. It reminds me of last Thanksgiving when you tried to make amends. I don’t think you were sorry, just lonely. But that didn’t keep me from wanting to believe you’d changed. Unable to keep my deep cerulean sheath dress from catching my eye, I pull my hand down and let it rest against my chest as the shade of your dead veins haunts me.
I used to fear you’d live forever, that you’d continue to control me until I died myself. Nightmares plagued me with images of your darkened eyes, your insults. You made me fear you.
I still do.
But like everyone else, your heart stopped beating and no one was there.
That’s what hurts the most. Even after everything you did, I still wish I could’ve been there for you. The one time I wasn’t, you gave up. It’s almost as if you planned it. One last attack.
How many times have I taken refuge here? I close my eyes and let the still air hold me. This closet has protected me. It’s been my only home, my only reprieve from you.
Now that you’re gone, not even it can keep you out. You’re inside of me. In my blood, my skin. I see your eyes staring back at me whenever I have to face a mirror.
I don’t want any of it. I wish I could be glad, spit on your corpse and be done with it. But here I am again.