Flash fiction

Write what you know, they say. I know nothing. I am nearly 50 with a child, a husband and a house. What do I know. How the washing machine works. That’s a manual not a novel. I am less capable with the iron. I don’t ‘know ‘ the iron so you are spared the nuances of it. Lucky you. I can sew a badge on a blazer-hardly likely to grip you for too long. How did I get here? This isn’t what I wanted. Trapped in rigid urban stereotype. Write what you know. The cat needs to be vaccinated in October. The tap in the sink in the kitchen is leaking. Has been for twelve months. The Factory Shop sells cheap coat hangers. Are you impressed yet?

I hate driving in traffic. It makes me nervous-would you like to explore why? No me either. I have a past. I don’t think about it. Unless I want to avoid thinking of the present and the future. Write what you know. My child’s school shoes don’t fit anymore. Her trainers have holes. I am not sure what she is going to eat for lunch next week. Wait- is that something I know or don’t know. At last  a deep philosophical question. Or not. English supermarkets sell Irish potato scones and not Scottish ones-There’s a tidbit for a pub quiz. Are you dazzled by my intellectual contribution yet. 

We are nearly out of butter. The yoghurt in the fridge is out of Code. The water bottle on the table has water from the shop and not from our tap. I haven’t finished it or reused it yet. In the drawer in the dining room is a packet of 100 straws, with about 80 left, because my child reuses them. I hate washing straws. I never dry my hair. The hair dryer is for when I paint my nails. Everyone knows cold water is better, except for me, not me. Write what you know. I tell myself this is living. Because no one I know is doing anything else. I rage at the monotony of it all but there is no escape.

I can’t remember when  first was able to do it. I go into the bookshop.

I look at all the covers, so bright, so beautiful. All those words. All those words on those pages in those books. I think about the money I am saving. I think of those poor starving authors. I think of them but I do it anyway.

I see one I like. I touch the cover. Just two fingers on the cover. I absorb it. It is hard to explain. All those words just seep out. Into my fingertips. They tingle and swell. This must be a wordy tome. I wait a minute, with my fingers on the book. Inhaling it. 

I know the shop assistant thinks I am odd.

 I have been here before to do this. I wonder if one day they will ask me to leave. To stop. Say no. I wonder if there are others like me. Who come here and slide their fingers knowingly over the books. I wonder if the shop assistant knows. I watch how she looks at me. Ours eyes lock. They have locked before. She knows.

But she only knows I have a secret. She doesn’t know what it is. I can feel the words, travelling through me. This book is in my blood now. Every word.  I hold it there. Inside of me.  All those words streaming through me. Travelling around inside me. Liquid words. Like the best champagne you ever had.

My fingers. The words. They connect. I leave.

Hours later. I make a coffee. I sit in the garden. And all those words, they run before my eyes. It is not quite reading. It is like the book has become part of me. I feel it. Every word. In my head. I sense it. I absorb it. Each page passes through my mind. It is a beautiful experience. A secret.

Its 8.02. I slip my legs over the side of the bed. I slide the fibres of the rug between my toes and pull hard. I am alive. Waiting again. But alive.

Waiting for the bathroom. Waiting for someone to be ready. Waiting for them to come back so I can have the car. Waiting to use the shower. Waiting until the washing is done. I am waiting. Waiting. Always waiting.  

I scrunch the fibres of the rug under my toes. Perhaps I am tired of waiting. I really need the bathroom. I could use the one upstairs but it will wake them up. I wait. With the rug pulled between my toes. I could put on my dressing gown and leave. Just leave. No more waiting. Just gone. Free. But I would need to pee before I got to the end of the street. So I wait. For the bathroom to be free. Whilst my freedom slips down to my feet and out the bottom of them. Into the rug. The rug absorbs my freedom.

I look at it. I picture it lifting off. Floating down the hallway. Down the street. Without me. Free. I focus my frustration on my toes. How dare this rug want to be free. I paid for this rug. I placed it here. How dare it want to be free. I tug with my toes on the filaments of rug. It is never enough. I need the bathroom. I need to leave. It is 8.03.

I pull on my dressing gown and I just leave. I leave. I roll up the rug and take it with me. We can be free together. I roll it up. Me and the rug all rolled up, we walk to the end of the street. I still need to pee. I lay it out on the grass. I lay down on it and look at the sky. I am free. I get up. I leave it there. It is free. I am free. I keep walking.  But it was all in my head. In my head I left. The rug came with me. The reality is I wait, I pee, I get the breakfast. I wait some more. I go out. Possibly I am alive but this, this is not living.

There is dark. And there is light. We are in the dark. We can see the light. We are not headed in that direction. We are going somewhere else. I tried the light with all its ‘lightness’. It didn’t work. Some of us are just dark. On the inside. I don’t mean to offend in those words. It’s a ridiculous analogy. As if dark is always bad. Its not. I think the dark is good. I did not enjoy the light.

Its full glow. I felt bare. Naked. Exposed. Here in the dark there is comfort. Like being wrapped in a blanket. I can do things. No one sees. No one needs to know. Do I do things? Perhaps? Maybe. But you can’t know because this is the darkness. You can hear in the dark. Noises. There are noises. It could be me. It could be someone else. The noise. It is acute. You can smell as well. You don’t notice it. Not like you should. But you can. In the darkness, there is noise and smell. And touch. Searing pain? Maybe.

But who is touching? Is that pain? You can’t see it. How do you know it hurts? Because you know pain. You’ve seen pain. But this is the darkness. You can’t see in the darkness. Do you know it hurts? Are you sure? What is the warmth that is covering your hand. Smell it. You know that smell. Is it pain though? You are stumbling. Are you sure it’s pain? In the darkness. You are reaching for the light. I told you, this is not the light. You are here with me in the darkness. I whisper words. You can hear in the darkness. ‘Yes, this is pain.’ I pull out the tiny blade. I walk away. 

It moves as if its mine. I think-it moves. As if its my own. It is my own. I paid for it.

The government is saying ‘Epidemic’. No one is listening. I had it done deliberately. It is bright and shiny and silver. I am super strong. Well at least my left hand is. The whole arm in fact. Titanium.  Only the hand is fully replaced, the rest is a kind of internal circuitry. I have kept my bones and my nerves. It’s just that the bones have been reinforced.

I like the sound it makes as each finger taps on the table. Mechanical. Fascinating.  The man across the way is looking at me. Staring. Fear.

He is afraid. Of me.

I like the way it sounds as it crunches against the glass when I pick it up. It is self defence. I have a weapon. Its also useful for jam jars too..

Technically it is illegal for a woman to have her hand cut off and replaced with a titanium hand. ‘Epidemic’.  It’s illegal because there have been problems??? They haven’t passed a law yet on wielding a hand with menace but I’m sure they will soon.

It’s super advanced. It responds to my command but it has 5, 6 times the strength of a human hand. I need a permit for it. I have a very good forgery.

I love the way it feels. How quickly it responds. I can see the man across the way wants to see the permit.  He won’t ask. I have seen this before. He won’t follow me home anymore either.

I get up to leave. I see the waitress admire my hand. I flex it. It is amazing. I get on my bike. Hassle me on my bike and I can rip the door off your car. I love this hand.

I see the officers ahead of me. They hail me down. I have been here before too. I stop.

They asked to see my papers for this hand. I use ‘this hand’ to do it. To prove to them how dexterous it is. How magnificent. It is a weapon. I hand over the papers. Forged. I had this done deliberately, did I tell you? Wouldn’t you? Even the odds. Well not so much even, as tip them in your favour.  

I can see the female officer admiring my hand. The truth is it just works differently, better when it is attached to the female brain. Something about size or scale or something. There is a science but I haven’t bothered with it too much. It doesn’t work so well, something to do with the male body rejecting it all the time.

They say its like pregnancy. To be pregnant the human body has to accept the foetus on a physiological level. Female bodies can do this. Male bodies can’t. My body is capable of thinking I am pregnant with a titanium hand. I can never actually fall pregnant now but it seems like a small price to pay for safety. Although I think I have gone beyond safety.

I can smell his fear. This officer. He doesn’t know what to do. He senses the papers are a forgery. His partner, she looks unconcerned. This is where the system has fallen apart. She is indifferent. He is scared. He knows I can simply end his life with one single slap from this hand. It’s as simple as that.

He nods. She nods. They let me go. That’s how it is. This hand. It changes everything.

I don’t look like her. Her hair goes swish. Mine still has lime green highlights. I know her teeth are white. Bright. Her lips lined. Eyelashes clad. Nails polished red. The clothes just tight enough, just short enough. Shoes strapped just right around her ankles.

My nails are blue and yellow and green. Rainbow nails. My clothes are. Unusual.  Trainers.

He is classic. Chiselled. Chino’ed. They are perfect together.

She looks over her shoulder at me. Eyes moving up and down me. Disdain. Turns her head back. Where are my pert parts? Nothing is pert. At least not pert enough. My piercings not to her taste. She leans in to him. Says something. He looks at me. Says something back. They giggle. Together. I look at them both. A shared disdain.  For me.

They whisper. He leans into her. Eyes close. Mouths open. Heads at angles. On the tube.

Seriously. I look away. Look back. Drawn.  He is. They are. Eyes flick open. Still kissing. His tongue down her throat. Eyes. Hers closed.  His open. Looking at me. I look at him. My eyes. His eyes. Lock. That look. Mine.  I see. She does not. Not disdain. That other word. I see that other word in his look. I look away.

The doors open. I get off the tube.

Lust. Betrayal is always unnerving.

 I look at their hands. I’ve seen this a thousand times before.

She sits. He sits. She talks. Softly. Quietly. He talks. He talks some more. She starts to say. He talks. Over the top. She starts to say. He starts gesticulating. He is getting louder. The movement of his arms wider. His rightness taking up the whole space in this café. He is definitely right.

She says something. Softly. He briefly makes eye contact. She looks down. Away. I can hear his every word now. His points dotted with expletives. I look at their hands again. His flinging widely in the air. Hers neatly held in her lap. Then on the table. Hands.

He is still loud. The broad sweep of his gestures taking up all of our space. His legs splayed apart under the table. Sitting back. Mouth open. Words spewing out. He must be right.

She starts to say something again. He keeps talking. We are the only customers in the café. He is oblivious to my presence. She is not. Blushing. Embarrassed. He is even louder and the waitress is watching. He doesn’t care. He is definitely right.

I dig around in my bag. A business card. I stand up. There is no point in prolonging my stay. I have seen this before.

I stop as I am passing their table. I hand her my business card. I only say two words, ‘For you.’

She looks down at it. Smiles. He has barely drawn breath. Does not notice.  I walk out. I look back.

She is still looking at my business card, T. Latte, Divorce Lawyer.

Words elude me. I sit quietly. The world is passing me by. As if this bench is drifting on the open sea. I look at the words on the page. My words. A different page. How did this happen?

A thief. He wanted to shake my hand. I know thieves. I did not shake his hand.

It’s like he reached in and took them out. One by one. These words on this page. My words. His name. I am shaking. Not his hand.

This bench is floating out across the sea. My words. Separated from me. Someone else using my voice. His voice speaking my words. Accolades. Prizes. Not mine. His.

My only consolation. In his smug little mind, there can only be silence. He is not upon the sea. He remains in the mud. With a target on his back.

Arrows run straight and true when fired from the crest of a wave.

I buzz the door. No one answers. I look at the card. It’s not my card. It’s not my building. I swipe the card. Push. Open. Enter. I am wearing heels. Well dressed. Smart. Suited. I hear my heels.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

On the tiles, in the entrance hall. I record the sound on my phone. For later.

There is carpet here too. Shoes off. I walk across the carpet. Plush. I can see vague footprints. Mine next to another. Smaller. You never look down at your carpet do you? Never really see the faint outline of feet. People are careless. I watched. Dropped. I found.

I run my fingers along the shelving. Dust. I sit on the couch. Nice. It’s a nice couch. Not to my taste. But nice. I turn on the TV. Daytime TV. I pick up the DVD case. The last one watched. I open it. I don’t quite close it. Put it down again.

The kitchen. I go in. Shoes on.

Click.

Clack.

On those shiny tiles. I open the fridge. I touch the bottle of milk. I pluck a cherry tomato from the stash in the fruit bowl. Tasty. I feel the oranges too. Round. Juicy. I like oranges. But I only touch. I open a drawer. No one will know I have been here.

I look in the drawer. Neat. Organised. Something catches my eye. Blue. A blue plastic potato peeler. I don’t own. Well. I do own. Now. I will keep it safe. I look in the bathroom. I look at my watch. How long has it been? Minutes. I put my hand on the sink, just to see the colour of my nails against the porcelain.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

On the tiles. Time to go now. I will drop the card outside your door.

I didn’t use your toilet. That would be weird.