Works From Flash-Fiction

Writing Practice: Based on Prompt

She liked to fit people into the world like puzzle pieces. She'd kept two piles in her life labeled good and bad. The good ones obviously stayed but she had the habit of keeping the bad ones and disguising them as something they were not. Maybe she hoped that deep down they weren't bad.Regardless, her own priorities were not in order.

She supposes that's why there are more good than bad people present in her life. Her mind was funny that way- taking every red flag and turning a blind eye to what was reality. Then again, what was reality anyway? Shows on the television promise real life stories and yet majority of their episodes are scripted until one could not associate the word "reality" with them anymore. She was certain that could be another reason why she willingly miscatsgorized people. Maybe these people didn't realize just how bad they are she'd think to herself, as if that was any justifiable reason for the way they behaved. There was of course the chance that she was wrong about who she's deemed good or bad.

Did she have the right?

Who was she to decide these things anyway?

Deep down, she knew that it could not and would not matter to her so long as had someone-anyone. She craved that kind of love in her life where she'd be surrounded by individuals who loved her. It didn't matter if they'd truly loved her or not.

She sighed lonely to herself, tears still present on her face as she rolled over in bed. They had left the room, leaving only the warm outline of their figure against the sheets and she wondered just how long they'd be gone this time. They'd been leaving more and more after each argument settled. She shuddered at the thought of their voice booming through the room while they demanded to know "why".

Maybe at some point they had loved her and maybe they think they still do. This, however, was not love. This left her skin feeling greasy and broke her out like a stubborn rash. This made her feel like a crumpled up ball of paper or the tired leather peeling off of an old bus seat. The disgust dug its way into her skin until she felt like a wasps nest, ripe for being broken open. This feeling made her want to rip her skin from her body entirely.

Why was she the way she was?

They would call her beautiful. It relieved her to know that they mistakenly called her floral curse a gift but soon realized that it was nothing more than a curse. The sound of their voice, once sweet, now hard and indistinguishable from who she thought she knew shook the room. It knocked over the vaces, cracked the windows, and made the air feel much colder than what it was. Flower petals scattered around the room as proof of the carnage that took place.

Why was she the way she was? More importantly, why was life so cruel?

This feeling was all solid proof that nobody would truly love her for what she was. Still, she felt comfort in surrounding herself with the people she disgusted. Anything was better than to live one's life alone and so she clung to those who didn't deserve her. She desperately made herself available; giving more than just her attention but her body, heart, and soul. It didn't matter to her how used to the burning she'd become.

At least she was feeling something.