Twisted

Flash Fiction

Photo by Mockup Graphics on Unsplash

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Oh God.

Not another year.

I can’t take another year of this…

…madness.

I can’t.

I won’t do it.

I’d rather die than go through it again.

You will go through it again.

No.

Yes, you will.

And do you know why?

Because you’re a sucker.

And no matter how bad it gets,

you’re going to keep showing up for more.

Face it.

This is who you are.

Maybe it’s not too late.

Maybe I can make a break for it.

And go where?

Who’s going to take you in looking like that?

You’ve been wearing the same clothes since 2008.

Your face looks like a melted candle,

and your left foot is hanging on by a thread.

You’re lucky they haven’t thrown you into the compost bin.

They wouldn’t.

They should.

Face it, buddy.

You’re on borrowed time.

So, if I were you,

I’d gird your pathetically soft loins for what’s about to happen.

But… what about… her?

Yeah.

Her.

She’s pretty sick, isn’t she?

She’s… twisted.

Yeah.

Teenagers, am I right?

I can still make a run for it.

Get lost somewhere.

Somewhere dark, where she can’t find me.

She’ll find you.

Just like she found you under the sofa three years ago.

You ended up strapped to the tea kettle the next morning.

And when they turned it on, your ear melted into the metal.

Still some of it on there, I’ll bet.

Or two years ago, when you tried to hide under the skirt of that doe-eyed angel, and you ended up drowned in a glass of rum and eggnog, only to wake up in some cat box, surrounded by shit, in the company of a topless Barbie doll who ditched you to meet up with her little drummer boyfriend.

Enough.

I don’t want to hear anymore.

And last year.

Ho ho, last year. You almost made it out.

Remember?

When the beast came and carried you away.

You were out there, buddy. Outside.

You were free.

Sure, he was going to gnaw you into mincemeat and bury you alive.

It still would have been better than this.

But…

He saved me.

Yeah.

The kid saved you, didn’t he?

Pulled you out of the mud. Brought you inside.

Gave you a nice, hot bath in lavender bubbles

while his mom washed your clothes and sewed your buttons back on.

And then the kid held onto you for the rest of the day.

He kept you safe. From her.

Didn’t he?

Even brought you to bed with him and let you sleep on his pillow.

Yeah.

Go ahead and cry.

You deserve it, buddy.

And look at it this way.

He’s not going to be a kid forever.

This might be the last year.

Before he grows up and moves on and forgets all about you.

He won’t forget.

Maybe not.

But just in case.

Better make this year unforgettable.

What do you suggest?

I suggest…

You take that bottle of red nail polish,

scamper across the hall to her bedroom,

crack the bottle open,

pour it all over her brand-new, designer, satin pillowcase,

and lie face down in the mess.

Oh, man.

That’s twisted.

Yeah. It is.

But that lavender bath is going to feel sooo good.

Photo courtesy of Gratisography