New flash piece with the prompt “pain” and the above picture.
The bottom of the bottle wasn’t so bad when you had another in line.
Pain, it doesn’t go away, you can just numb it, delay it, but eventually it’ll lick your open wounds and smile about it.
Heather. That was the name we had picked out. I always liked the name Heather. Seems ironic now, given what happened; her name, that is. Means a flower that grows on rocky, barren land.
Fuckin’ hell it’s been rocky the three years since. Three years. The first two months, you get condolence cards and cakes and hugs. The next two months, the “friends” started fading away. By the sixth month, they don’t understand why you can’t move on. Just flesh poured into sweatshop cotton clothes and brand shoes. And they always avoided eye contact. Eyes expose us.
Nights like this, I liked to think of us on the beach, collecting seashells, smelling the salt from the ocean or just talking.
Woulda been somethin’.