The bedroom curtains are closed. An orange light peeps under the ill-fitting material. A tiny promise before it’s gone. Lost to another rain-cloud.
‘Get up,’ he says. ‘Carpe Diem!’
Inside the bowl of my head, I see a fish. Two fish. One swimming one way and the other…
This room stinks. Deodorant masks a fishy smell. It’s rotten.
‘You’re in self-destruct mode again,’ he says.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I finger the piece of paper under my pillow. Who prints photographs anymore? My fist tightens around it.
More preening. Under my eyelids, I know. Waxed hair. Revolting.
The fish are swimming in fat. They’re struggling to move in the rancid fat.
‘Don’t work from home today. Come into the office,’ he says into the air.
I visualize the thinness of the words floating off and hitting the wall. Pale monotone syllables that crumple on impact.
The orange light tries again under the curtains. I feel it on my eyes but it’s weak.
The fish continue to swim in the darkness. There are small waves in the gloopy mess inside my head.
The wardrobe door creaks like a coffin lid from a horror film. He’ll never get round to fixing it now.
The newly discovered photograph crackles between my taut fingers. Only fools print evidence.
One fish breaks free from the other. Its head is rotting.
The blade is long and thin. Used for gutting fish.
His jacket is barely on when a red patch spreads across the crisp white shirt. A tiny whimper and a thump on the floor.
The photograph fits neatly over the crimson splodge - where the fool’s heart once was.
The coffin lid wardrobe door creaks, as I close it.
Carpe Diem. I’ll oil that today.
About the author
Lynn is a regular writer for Cafelit. She has recently worked with Cafelit author, Allison Symes, on the final edit of her first flash fiction collection, ‘The City of Stories.’ Lynn is a member of Basingstoke group, Writers inc.
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