Aphrodite, Inc.
Freelance Writing, Editing, and Design
Freelance Writing, Editing, and Design
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Site Design Copyright 2008 Aphrodite, Inc.
Aphrodite, Inc.
Freelance Writing, Editing, and Design
Freelance Writing, Editing, and Design
Night on Thursday
I'm up late, patching the hole he’s punched in the wall.
I scoop spackle out of the can, and watch it run like slow honey over the ragged gash. He’s taller than I, and his
fist hit the wall where my head would have been, if I’d been standing in the right place. Only the red paint is
scarred, but I hurt all the same.
He’s watching me. I say nothing. Our nightly dance, resumed.
There’s a shard of glass clinging under my toe. Wreckage. I should reach down, work it free. But I don’t. Pain
blossoms like a bright flower under my skin, spreading up my calf until my whole leg is thrumming with it.
In the morning, I will show him the slice in my toe, and tell him it was his fault.
Every man has two faces, and his is as dark as night’s doorstep, dark as the mutters that follow him home from
the bars. Now, he seethes, eyes red like torn skin. But tomorrow he’ll wake to sunlight on broken glass and
spackle, wearing the face I love, and beg me to forgive him.
I step to the side. There’s more glass, more pain. More little slices of revenge.
He leaves me with a curse, and topples a chair on his way out of the kitchen. I do not flinch, this time. I only
force my face into a mask of perfect serenity and grind my toes into the floor.
I scoop spackle out of the can, and watch it run like slow honey over the ragged gash. He’s taller than I, and his
fist hit the wall where my head would have been, if I’d been standing in the right place. Only the red paint is
scarred, but I hurt all the same.
He’s watching me. I say nothing. Our nightly dance, resumed.
There’s a shard of glass clinging under my toe. Wreckage. I should reach down, work it free. But I don’t. Pain
blossoms like a bright flower under my skin, spreading up my calf until my whole leg is thrumming with it.
In the morning, I will show him the slice in my toe, and tell him it was his fault.
Every man has two faces, and his is as dark as night’s doorstep, dark as the mutters that follow him home from
the bars. Now, he seethes, eyes red like torn skin. But tomorrow he’ll wake to sunlight on broken glass and
spackle, wearing the face I love, and beg me to forgive him.
I step to the side. There’s more glass, more pain. More little slices of revenge.
He leaves me with a curse, and topples a chair on his way out of the kitchen. I do not flinch, this time. I only
force my face into a mask of perfect serenity and grind my toes into the floor.
| This short story was a winner in Creating Reality's 2006 Flash Fiction competition, and was shortlisted in Fish Publishing's 2006 One Page Short Story competition. |