Here’s a little piece of flash fiction I wrote yesterday!
If one’s sin nature and a life without Christ could physically manifest itself, what would that look like? Pitch black.
A hand reaches inside my chest, clutching my heart in a death grip. The lights on the runway brighten.
I can’t breathe.
Five girls in front of me. I don’t remember their names. We talked and laughed while the makeup artists painted our faces less than an hour ago. The girl in front of me fiddles with the sash on her asymmetrical top.
A pleated, rainbow train snakes down the runway, and my vision blurs.
Three girls ahead.
The hand inside my chest tightens, and blood rushes to my face.
Why didn’t I ask their names? The answer surfaces in my mind like a magic eight ball—I didn’t care.
My life. Is this it? Is this all there is?
One girl now.
My eyes water, and the floral hat bobbing down the platform glares back at me, leering, ready to swallow me whole if I get too close. It can see through me. Can they all see? I hate them, and they hate me too.
It’s my turn now. I take one step. Another. The lights filter past me like trailing stars. And then it’s over.
Did I . . . black out?
Ignoring anyone who tries to stop me, I burst through the door backstage. The moon is unusually bright tonight. It blinks coyly at me, pretending it doesn’t know who I am. What I am.
I stumble behind a bush and throw up. The pool of sick before me is . . . pitch black. With a shaking hand, I wipe my mouth.
“What—” My voice is barely audible past the sludge running along my vocal cords. I cough to clear the mucus, but it does no good.
This isn’t possible.
Pushing off the ground, I try to stand. But the sight of my own hand on the dusty earth stops me. Blackness seeps from my pores like sweat.
“No.” I breathe. “No, no! Oh God, what is this?”
My eyes catch on tiny bubbles surfacing in the puddle of blackness. I hold my breath, watching as more appear. I’m reminded of cooking pancakes with my nana. “Wait,” she’d say, “for my more bubbles. Then you can flip it.”
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat pancakes again. But I wait anyway. More blackness leaks from the backs of my hands and beads on top of the dirt.
And then I see it. There’s a word written in the bubbles.
“Dead,” I say. My head swims. I blow hard on the surface of the puddle, bursting each and every pocket of air.
Black rivulets run from my hands to join the pool of sick. I lick my lips, tasting thick, acrid bile.
Another bubble forms on the pool.
A moan slips out, but I barely recognize the sound.
They come faster this time, another word surfacing in mere seconds.
“Man.” What is that supposed to mean?
With a growl, I sit back, shaking the blackness from my hands, but it does no good. Streams run down my forearms and drip from my elbows.
I glance back at the puddle, and another word has formed.
“Walking,” I say, brows knitting together. Dead man walking? My eyes scan the scene in front of me, and for a moment, I think I’m going to be sick again.
I close my eyes. Deep breaths. In through the nose, and out through the mouth.
Is that what I am? A dead man walking? Somehow that doesn’t seem far from the truth.
The door behind me bursts open. I collapse behind the bush, clutching my hands to my chest to hide my blackness.
They’ll ignore me. They always do, because they care about me as much as I care about them.
“Bette?”
My head snaps up at the sound of my name. I spin around, hiding my hands behind my back.
It’s the girl who wore the rainbow dress. Her painted face and perfectly teased hair clash with the jeans and t-shirt she’s donned.
“Oh!” She takes a step toward me, brown eyes widening. “What’s happened to you? Someone said you ran out here, and . . . you look awful!”
But I can’t speak. I can only stare at her mouth, transfixed.
“Bette? What is it?” She takes another step closer, and I see it again—a light hiding behind her lips. Or is it in her throat?
Forcing my gaze upward, I look the girl in the eye. And I recognize that expression—the one my mom always wore anytime I was really sick.
I thought they all hated me. I thought they were all just like me.
Ignoring my strange silence, the girl closes the distance between us, and pulls my arm out from behind my back. Her eyes examine the oozing blackness as though she were my sister instead of the stranger she actually is.
She wipes the blackness away with her hand, but it doesn’t stop seeping through. And yet . . . neither does it stick to her skin. How is she doing that? I grind my teeth.
“What’s,” I clear my throat, “your name?”
She glances up, and tries to hide her surprise that I have to ask. But the look is gone in a second.
“Sam. Samantha. Sammy. Whatever!” She laughs, and I catch another glimpse of the light emanating from her throat like a street lamp at the end of a dark tunnel. She lets go of my hand, and takes a step back.
“Right. Sorry about that,” I say.
Sam cocks her head to the side, and a cross pendant slides across the chain around her neck. My eyes follow its path.
I hold my hands up, and black droplets sprinkle the ground at the sudden movement. “Can you help me?”
She smiles and nods. “C’mon.” The light grows brighter. “I know the way.”