What She Thought It Was
by JM Prescott
"Look again."
"But I've looked twice. Three times if you count the first time, which I do." Panic starts to rise underneath her skin and she covers her face before the tears come.
"Did you throw it out?"
"I told you, I must have." She can't watch as he sifts through the trash. "I thought I had it." Her voice barely manages the words as she looks at the piece of paper in her hands. The piece of paper she thought it was is long gone. She refuses to let her eyes cry. Her eyes played tricks on her and showed her one thing was really another. They don't deserve to cry.
"I took out the trash yesterday," she whispered. "It will be long gone by now."
He stops shifting through yesterday's apple peels and coffee grinds, and looks up at her, holding his hands out as if they were garbage themselves.
"Alright," he says, not bothering to wash his hands as he walks out the door.
She collapses into a kitchen chair, still holding the piece of paper that isn't what she thought it was. She can't do anythin else. Her hands that saved this paper don't deserve to work. Mistakes have consequences. Even accidental murder victims die.
He's gone a long time. He comes back not like a man who's tasted victory but a man who's tasted garbage. He's wet, tired, dirty but he has it, and tosses the crumpled, stained paper on the table. "I'm going to take a shower," he says.
She waits and listens to the water. She's ashamed to move. Ashamed to breathe. She wishes she could take a shower and wash away the mistake.
But she can't, so she sits and listens to the water. And she carefully lays the clean, saved piece of paper next to what she thought it was. She won't throw either away. She'll never throw anything away again. She'll even eat the apple peel.
"But I've looked twice. Three times if you count the first time, which I do." Panic starts to rise underneath her skin and she covers her face before the tears come.
"Did you throw it out?"
"I told you, I must have." She can't watch as he sifts through the trash. "I thought I had it." Her voice barely manages the words as she looks at the piece of paper in her hands. The piece of paper she thought it was is long gone. She refuses to let her eyes cry. Her eyes played tricks on her and showed her one thing was really another. They don't deserve to cry.
"I took out the trash yesterday," she whispered. "It will be long gone by now."
He stops shifting through yesterday's apple peels and coffee grinds, and looks up at her, holding his hands out as if they were garbage themselves.
"Alright," he says, not bothering to wash his hands as he walks out the door.
She collapses into a kitchen chair, still holding the piece of paper that isn't what she thought it was. She can't do anythin else. Her hands that saved this paper don't deserve to work. Mistakes have consequences. Even accidental murder victims die.
He's gone a long time. He comes back not like a man who's tasted victory but a man who's tasted garbage. He's wet, tired, dirty but he has it, and tosses the crumpled, stained paper on the table. "I'm going to take a shower," he says.
She waits and listens to the water. She's ashamed to move. Ashamed to breathe. She wishes she could take a shower and wash away the mistake.
But she can't, so she sits and listens to the water. And she carefully lays the clean, saved piece of paper next to what she thought it was. She won't throw either away. She'll never throw anything away again. She'll even eat the apple peel.
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Author's Note
Sometimes a piece of paper is more than a piece of paper - when it's not the piece of paper she thought it was.
Writing Challenge: Somehow use the words trash and twice in your flash.
Other stories by JM Prescott
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This was intriguing. I was left eager to know what the piece of paper was that she had thrown away. In this small exchange a lot is learned about the couple's relationship. Nice.
I love this. It is such an intense look at a relationship through dialogue and action. It has past, present, and future nicely presented within a short timespan. Nice.
I can't guess what she accidentally threw away, and it's driving me crazy!
Thank Ya'll for your comments and encouragement.
Does not knowing what it was frustrate you? Or does it leave you with that nice mystery tingle?
Love it, perfect. "I hope she thanked him at some point," the oft-garbage covered man said.
Oh, and I don't want to know what it was, I didn't think this was about the paper. But that is just me. :)
That was my thought - but everyone seems to want to know what it is and I though "What do I know - I'm just the author."
YES, keep it the way it is. The reader wants to know and doesn't want to know -- that's the beauty of this piece. Well done!
Thank you Michelle. I never feel right about giving too much away, but sometimes I keep too much from my reader. So it's hard to trust my instincts, when in the back of my mind I'm thinking "but this is something you need to work on..."
Just read this. Doesn't matter what it was. The thing of it is the emotion, the resolution, the sad destiny that makes people afraid to throw anything away until their homes are a warehouse of paper. One day, they are trapped, unable to reach the door.
I really like this.