Back in 2008, Livejournal conducted a flash fiction contest where 500-word-stories had to be written on the theme: journal. They gave us a sop saying that all selected stories ‘might’ go into a published book, and we were allowed to send in more than one entry. I sent in five.
I’m serializing them on this blog. This is the second story. You can read the first here.
She takes the glass from my hands. Takes a sip. She says, “They won’t kill me, right?”
“I won’t let them.”
She presses her forehead against my hip bone and sighs. “It’s good to be back with you.”
I don’t say a thing. I just stand there, patting her skull.
“Are you angry at me?” She hugs my waist. “Are you?”
I don’t stop patting.
“You are. I can tell.” She sniffs. Don’t know if she’s crying or if she’s got a cold. Don’t care any more. “You’re a bastard,” she says.
I don’t get angry at that. It’s just a statement of fact.
“You don’t trust me,” she goes on. “You’ve never trusted me.” She digs her nails into my thighs. She’s always had long fingernails. Long and thin and beautiful.
“It was you who told me to snitch on him. It was you who set us up with the whole plan. It was you who said we’ll be happy.” Her words start to wobble a little. She shakes her head. “And I did all that, for you. For us!”
I sit down next to her. She picks up the glass again.
“But you,” she spits. “All you care about is how I ignored you for the last year. Wasn’t that part of the plan? Do you think he would not have seen it if I had just – just – pretended?” She takes another gulp, a bigger one. “The man had eyes of a hawk.” She shuts her eyes and leans back
I look at her thighs. Part of the plan. I thumb the journal in my pocket. Was that part of the plan, too, I want to ask her. I want to play the sounds out to her in full volume. I want to ask her if all the orgasms the old codfish gave her were part of the plan too. But I just sit there. Don’t say a thing.
She strokes my cheek. “Why don’t you get it, kid? I love you.”
Dames do that. They knee you in the balls while ramming their tongues down your throat.
She keeps going. “Would I have killed him otherwise? You don’t think I’m here just because of the cops, do you?” Her eyes are half-closed, now. “I don’t need you to escape, dear. I have evidence that I loved him.” She grinned.
She nods like a drunk. “Yes, looks just like a real one. Even has a nano-titanium strip on its processor. No – court in the – world can – tell the difference.”
I blink once. Twice. “The journal’s fake?” My words fall out one by one, choking on themselves.
She drops the glass to the floor in reply. Her head is thrown back.
I check her pulse. Nothing. Digitalis is fast. And strong.
I look at the walls. White as a dead lab rat.
Pushing to my feet, I stumble into the kitchen. I need a drink. With something strong and fast in it. Right now.
Before the walls start dripping red.
Image Courtesy: Decor Advisor