Flash Fiction
Illustrations Ana G. Pulido
Flash fiction, because of its length, tempts us to read one story after the other. (We forget that it is closer to a poem than to a narrative). Thus, the emotion of each one eliminates that of the previous one. The Petits poèmes en prose by Baudelaire or the short stories of the master Anderson Imbert advise us to do the opposite: to put the book down and relish what one has read, if it deserves to be relished.
SHE
I Mother
Tropical night, one of those that invite contemplation and happiness. I sat on the terrace of the first café I came across on Copacabana Avenue. At the next table I heard crying. I looked out of the corner of my eye: a blonde in black was showing a white beaded necklace to a friend: ‘He gave it to me,’ she said. Her friend listened. `Beer,’ she asked the waiter. ‘Two,’ the blonde said. ‘The best customer I’ve ever had,’ she went on; ‘but you don’t understand.’ ‘Who is it?’ ‘I can’t say; government, important, and married,’ she sobbed. ‘I would like one of those’, her friend said with envy. ‘The best; but he just wanted today, today of all days of the year.’ ‘You told him?’ ‘Yes, and he listened to me. But he did not understand; he wanted and wanted; today of all days. He grabbed me by the wrist, took me to the bedroom and pushed me onto the bed. “I’m paying you twice as much today,” he shouted at me. No, I couldn’t; I can’t. Can you imagine? Me, not today; today is a holy day. He slapped me, twice; he kicked me. “You fucking whore,” he yelled at me as he slammed the door.’ She fell silent. She looked tearfully at the sea night. ‘I’ll be that,’ she continued, ‘I know, but it’s the anniversary of my daughter’s death.’
II Hidden Terror
I don’t know how I came to this. It happened slowly, without me noticing. From there, the corner in my mother’s house, the tickling, the caressing, the ecstasy between the first sheets that stuck to our bodies the night we were united forever. From that to this. Every time he opens the door, I tense up; every time he speaks to me, I tremble and my response trembles. The very possibility of his arrival terrifies me. I know that I have no freedom of movement, that he will come in and if I am not here he will look for me and find me. And I know very well what will follow: the smell of A&E, the questions, the explanation that doesn’t want to come out. I don’t know how I got here.
III Slow Disappearance
She looked out of the window. Yes, she had said before the priest and at the registry office. And today it was raining like that day. How many days and their rains. There had been a few sunny ones, at first, but each day it had rained more and more. Like now. Him. And always his friends. Where were hers? Where were they? They had been lost in the rain. Until they were just water, afternoon, clouds. Not even the two children and their illusions had stopped that rain. And sometimes that which she kept quiet. She looked back inside: the everyday living room, the everyday kitchen. And their shadows. And then she realised that she was disappearing
IV The Shadow
She woke with a start. What was that? A dream? The light, the switch. No. Best the dark, to hide in. If it was him, sure it was him, they’d released him. He’d give a damn for the restraining order, he’d look for her. She got up and silently went to the door. Just a crack to peek through. The living room. Streaks of streetlight on the lowered blind; not a sound. But he was there, crouching; she could feel it; she knew it. He had found her. So much security. The order. The bracelet. New home. A sixth floor, less accessible. And there he was, in the dark. Not a sound, for sure he was tiptoeing, and stark naked, as when they still loved each other. A shadow, yes, darker. He would kill her. This time he would kill her. But first he would make her writhe in agony; he would burn her with a cigarette, would mark her with a knife. She couldn’t take it anymore. She closed the door slowly. She walked around the darkened room, tugged at her hair, said things to herself, banged her knees with her fists and her forehead against the wall. There he was, that shadow. He had found her. She had to hide. Under the bed, inside the wardrobe, behind the curtain. No, he would find her. The window. Stealthily she pulled up the blind and climbed onto the sill. She waited motionless. Until a creaking sound came from the other side of the door.
The police forced their way in. The flat was empty. Suicide, they said.
V The Harassment
She locked the door and leaned back against it, snorting. Home at last. She was home, and now she was safe. But they were still there, inside her, those men and their slimy mouths and their screams and their laughter. How many of them. It didn’t matter. One she didn’t want to be with was too many. She was dirty, dirty with slobber and hands and laughter. And with fear. The shower. The clothes, she’d throw them away. A long, long shower would clean her all over. Better a bath that would make her forget. But in the bath she was still haunted by the unwashed memory of her kicking and crying and moaning under their weight.
