Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]
Post: FFF – September 13, 2013
Theme / Genre: –
Include: Nail polish, knife, tissues, shoebox, watch.
Words: 865
Left Behind
In the dim light you
stand at that the top of the stairs, looking down at him at the bottom, he does
not move. You know he’s not going to
move, you know the force that you thrust the knife into his body, there is no
way anyone would survive that, especially as he fell the full flight of stairs
with that heavy bag of his.
You remember the
noise.
It happened about
ten minutes ago and you have been standing there ever since, in the dark of the
night, just staring down at him, watching to see if he moves, he has not.
The noise he made as
he fell, you stabbed him, you pushed him, he fell, the noise.
Again, your eyes
stray from his body to look at the broken spindles that he crashed into. Poking out at differing angles onto the
stairs, some with dark blood markings, as the blade you are still holding. You feel the weight of it now in your right hand;
the knife is a good nine inches long and glistens with the man’s deep crimson
blood.
There is blood on
the stairs, from the knife, from where he fell, from where you pushed him.
The noise was loud,
his sudden unexpected screech, the cracking of timber, the cracking of bone; you
are sure it was bone. The way he is laying,
there, his arms and legs distorted, they must be broken.
That was the noise: fractures,
breaks.
You tighten the grip
of your left hand, without looking, you know it is still there, the
shoebox. He did not get his hands on it;
you did not let him.
He tried, but you
protected it, just as promised, just as always.
It is all you have left and he would have stolen it from you. He did not know about the knife, otherwise,
he would not have come. He did not know
what the box and its contents meant to you.
The man was a fool
to try.
Why do some people
think it is acceptable to take other peoples things, possessions, memories,
why? What would he have done with
them? Not sold them, he’d get nothing,
he wouldn’t know their history; given them to his girlfriend, unlikely, they
are so defaced and scarred; thrown them away, probably. It is no matter; he will not be coming to get
them now. They are safe.
The blade is
starting to shake now, only slightly, but you notice. You have not moved for nearly twenty minutes,
it is beginning to weigh you down. To
compensate, you clench both hands. The
guard of your Bowie knife pushes right into the flesh of your hand from the
force of the lunge you made. The card of
the shoebox is crumpling, as you tighten your grip.
The noise was loud,
even for that short time. The neighbours
must have heard something; heard his scream, or the sound of falling; the
splintering of wood; the cracking of a skull, his skull. Surely, someone heard. The tiled flooring to the hallway, did he
crack his head open? Did you crack his
head open?
Looking down to the
tiles, trying to see his head, you notice a faint blue light shining through
the glass of the front door; it’s flashing.
Brighter and brighter, the blue light grows. Flashing and flickering, it illuminates the
tiles with a depressing sapphire light.
A pool of dark, dark crimson, surrounds the head of the man, you can see
it now.
That was the noise.
Peering down again,
to the box this time, you smile; you know the watch and the two bottles are
safe; safe in your hands. There was no
way he was going to get them, and you made sure of that.
Why do thieves
presume they can just break-in and take anything they want? Why?
Protect them, that
is your job, and you have. You have
nothing to fear. If anyone asks they
will see you have done your job, you have protected the box and its delicate
contents.
Three things are inside
the box, cosseted in tissues to keep them safe and sound: a Longines watch, one
bottle of nail polish, and one of nail varnish.
You know why they are there. They
are all you have left of her. The last
things she touched.
An engraved watch you
gave for her twenty-first and miraculously a bottle of her favourite, although
unusual, green nail varnish, and polish.
All found in the carnage of Minoru Yamaski’s fallen World Trade
Centre towers. The wristwatch, separate
from the disintegrated and burnt make-up bag, however, both contained a clear
reference to your undying love, over a decade ago.
He would never get his hands on anything you knew that,
never. No one would.
Into the intense flashing blue light you gaze, it’s mesmerising
and soothing. There is a flickering shadow
approaching the door, it grows larger and your doorbell rings; a familiar
ring. He doesn’t hear it, the man at the
bottom of the stairs, but you do. A
second ring and you tighten your grip again.
They are safe. The
police will understand. You had to
protect them.
