More Flash Fiction

Aunt Sophia (#relative)

Warm rays of morning sunlight danced delicately through the window and over the fine skin of her eyelids. Holding her mug close to her mouth, she smiled as the aromatic steam bathed her lips, nose, and cheeks. It was during this soothing ritual that she indulged in the delightful thought of killing her husband.

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Aunt Sophia had been a silent fixture of the front sitting room since Oliver could remember. He used to crawl over to her wheelchair and use it to pull himself up to a stand. He remembered wanting to touch the delicate lace that adorned her sleeves, but his nanny hurried in and interrupted him.

"Don't bother your auntie," she would chide and haul him back to his corner full of toys in the kitchen, or upstairs to his room for a nap.

When he was five he asked his mother why Aunt Sophie never spoke or made any noise.

"She's broken hearted," replied his mother.

This never made sense to Oliver. When the paw of his favorite bear fell off after years of being toted around or when his toy train splintered into ruin, he howled long and loud.

When he was six, he asked his father how Aunt Sophie's heart got broken.

"She lost her husband," replied his father from behind his newspaper.

Oliver pondered this for a good long while. He understood children getting lost. A constable had once returned him to his nanny when he ran away from her in the market. It was honestly a terrifying experience. After the thrill of darting off, he turned and realized she wasn't following him and he couldn't find her through the throngs of people. But adults? They should know their way home.

When he was eight his older cousin told him his aunt was a widow and that is why she wore black. "No, my uncle didn't die," said Oliver, "he got lost."

"No," she explained. "Auntie's husband died suddenly in a terrible accident before Oliver was born. She was never 'right in the head' after he died and that is why she now has to live with relatives." Oliver's cousin shook her head solemnly.

This put a whole new spin on his aunt that he had never considered. He didn't have particularly warm feelings towards her. How could he? She never moved, never spoke, never changed the expression on her face or looked anywhere but out the front window. But he felt he ought to feel sorry for her.

When he was eleven, it became his morning chore to bring her a cup of tea before he left for school. He hated this task, because he disliked chores in general and wasn't a morning person. Getting himself dressed and ready was torture enough. He whined and complained bitterly of this task and always stomped into the front room and quickly placed the tea on the small table beside his aunt and stormed off again.

One day, after six months of this daily task, he stood staring at her after he brought the tea. Her whole existence made no sense in his mind. He had lost a pet and of course he realized he would be devastated if his parents died, but he wouldn't spend the rest of his life staring out the window. What would be the point of that?

He stood there and watched her carefully pick up the mug of tea and bring it to her lips. She closed her eyes in the bright sun and before she took a sip, to his surprise, Oliver saw a faint smile cross her face.