No, there's no mistake. And stop calling me Shirley.
The fine folks at 52/250 (
52250flash.wordpress.com) graciously declined a story of mine- as is their right. It is their dojo, and I'm just a squirrel trying to get a nut. But so that it will live on, and not die in infamy, I will put the story here. The theme is "Broken Shells", and the title is "Won't Get Fooled Again".
I had missed her call- caught up in a basketball game, I had not heard my phone's silent summons. The message was incoherent- sobbing, broken up with an occasional clear word. He had hit her again. I was fumbling for my keys before the message had stopped playing, and I was already driving to her apartment when the message finally ended.
She had made me a key 3 weeks ago when I had to drive her home for the fourth time in one week. He never knew that I had it. I opened the door, hearing the TV blaring, David Caruso trying to solve another crime. She was laying on the couch, her head back, her eyes closed, utterly silent. She was beautiful- but she never let me call attention to her looks. I answered her calls because I liked her. And because I loved her, too.
She was naked, I noticed, under a fleece blanket. She wasn't making any of the sounds that sleeping people make- the snorts, the murmurs, the wheezes. On the table in front of her was a bottle of wine, three quarters empty, and a prescription bottle tipped on its side. There were empty halves of capsules on the table, along with traces of a white powder. I could see trails, like a finger had been dragged through the powder.
David Caruso spoke to us on the TV screen. "You don't have to pull the trigger to be the killer."
