The Cuts on Her Wrist
Inspired by Fast Food Fiction: Short Short Stories to Go, below is a piece of flash fiction that I wrote last year. I had received some encouraging feedback since then, but I know this can still be improved. So far, the word count reached 440. Not bad, if I say so myself.
THE CUTS ON HER WRIST
When she heard the priest speak from the other side of the rattan screen, she felt her heart skipping a beat or two. Then, as though to catch up she felt it pumping a little faster, a little too hard. But as she knelt there, she remained alert. And silent. And still. So still, she felt the air conditioner drying up the beads of sweat on her forehead and cooling the slim, chain-like silver bracelet that failed to conceal a pair of healed cuts on her slender wrist.
Then she spoke, cautiously, softly, almost whispering. But she was quite sure he heard her: silence. Lingering, uncomfortable. Silence, except for his unusually deep—and rapid—breathing. She wondered: What is he thinking? Is he going to excuse himself, again? But his door remained closed. She had often thought what she would do in this exact situation. Make a scene, perhaps? But not now, she realized. Not here. Never.
She told him about the cuts on her wrist. Her lover drove her to it, she explained. She couldn’t understand his sudden disappearance from her life: Was it something she had said? Had she done something wrong? Had she been too demanding of his time, especially on weekends? She had probed her memory of their 18-month relationship for clues; there were none. No one knew where he was. Very few people even knew about them.
She also told him that, after the doctors had released her from the hospital, one of her friends made a lovely gesture. Why don’t you come with me to the province one weekend, just us, she quoted her friend. It will give you some much-needed peace of mind.
It took a while for the priest to talk. He asked her if she regretted what she had done. It amused her that he sounded as if he was the regretful one. She told him that what she did was probably wrong. But then again, would she be here if she had not done that?
She waited for the Our Fathers, Hail Marys and Glory Be’s she expected to recite when she heard him performing the Rite of Absolution. But even after he slowly, almost reluctantly slid the lid to close his side of the screen on her (for there were other penitents to attend to), she remained kneeling. She stared at the screen for a while, reminding her of impossible things—for her, for them. With her finger she gently traced the figure of a cross over it and then gradually stood up to go, careful not to rub her swollen belly, now lighter than usual, against the door. (Copyright © 2004 by A.I.D.)
THE CUTS ON HER WRIST
When she heard the priest speak from the other side of the rattan screen, she felt her heart skipping a beat or two. Then, as though to catch up she felt it pumping a little faster, a little too hard. But as she knelt there, she remained alert. And silent. And still. So still, she felt the air conditioner drying up the beads of sweat on her forehead and cooling the slim, chain-like silver bracelet that failed to conceal a pair of healed cuts on her slender wrist.
Then she spoke, cautiously, softly, almost whispering. But she was quite sure he heard her: silence. Lingering, uncomfortable. Silence, except for his unusually deep—and rapid—breathing. She wondered: What is he thinking? Is he going to excuse himself, again? But his door remained closed. She had often thought what she would do in this exact situation. Make a scene, perhaps? But not now, she realized. Not here. Never.
She told him about the cuts on her wrist. Her lover drove her to it, she explained. She couldn’t understand his sudden disappearance from her life: Was it something she had said? Had she done something wrong? Had she been too demanding of his time, especially on weekends? She had probed her memory of their 18-month relationship for clues; there were none. No one knew where he was. Very few people even knew about them.
She also told him that, after the doctors had released her from the hospital, one of her friends made a lovely gesture. Why don’t you come with me to the province one weekend, just us, she quoted her friend. It will give you some much-needed peace of mind.
It took a while for the priest to talk. He asked her if she regretted what she had done. It amused her that he sounded as if he was the regretful one. She told him that what she did was probably wrong. But then again, would she be here if she had not done that?
She waited for the Our Fathers, Hail Marys and Glory Be’s she expected to recite when she heard him performing the Rite of Absolution. But even after he slowly, almost reluctantly slid the lid to close his side of the screen on her (for there were other penitents to attend to), she remained kneeling. She stared at the screen for a while, reminding her of impossible things—for her, for them. With her finger she gently traced the figure of a cross over it and then gradually stood up to go, careful not to rub her swollen belly, now lighter than usual, against the door. (Copyright © 2004 by A.I.D.)
posted by Alvin at 6:00 AM
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