Honey, I'm home

Photo: Kike Calvo/NationalGeographic Creative/Corbis

flash fiction friday #48

The dreams were always the worst right when she woke.

She rose into consciousness with a gasp, instinctively flailing against the heavy waves of darkness. Her breath came ragged as familiar things revealed themselves slowly in dim light. A sheen of sweat sparkled on copper skin. She raked her fingers across her forehead and pushed stringy strands away from her eyes. She ran her tongue over dry lips and prayed for water.

But she couldn't move.

Not yet.

Not before she checked.

She slid her hand under the pillow and felt for the knife. There. Still sheathed. Her breath came ragged. The memory of what tormented her was a black hole. It sat like a stone in the pit of her stomach. That was the worst part, the Not Knowing.

She swung her feet off the bed and rose again, letting the sheets fall away, and padded naked down the narrow hall. She meant to go for water, water sounded good, but instead of a glass she found herself reaching for a paring knife cocked just so on the draining board. She needed to cut, to release the fear. She wondered if her blood would run black.

She dangled the knife with two fingers from the handle, letting the tip of the blade swing like a pendulum along the inside of her forearm where it curved upward. Her breath came ragged. With a strangled cry, she gripped the knife with white knuckles and swept the table clear.

Carefully set plates for two, the knife, the fork, the small green napkins, the bowl of fruit went crashing, clanking, thudding, rolling. Two survivors rolled to the edge of the table, one after the other, like pool balls jostling for a corner pocket, an overripe orange, a browning lime. She watched them roll and tip.

When his key slid in the door, she thought of the knife slicing her pliant skin. She brought the blade up to her chest just as his shadow darkened the hall.