Cracked

Here’s a flash fiction story, as part of a trio of flash fiction stories, I submitted to a flash magazine back in 2014. I’ll post the other two shortly. They have yet to see the light of day until now. They all vary in length.

Admittedly, it was another bullshit start to the day, as I had a ball-cringing hangover from the previous night. Binging at my age begins to look more pre-Alcoholics Anonymous than it does enjoyable. Cravings had to be satiated and whiskey had become my unrelenting mistress. Drinking helped, I guess, with the pain, at least in the moment.

Everywhere I looked something reminded me of her. Flowers arranged how she left them in front of the window overlooking our smog-filled city view. Glasses left on the bedside table. Her scent – that’s what got me the most. I go in the bathroom, the kitchen, anywhere, and I smell her. Just takes a brief intake of that familiar aroma and the memories come a-rushing. Knowing I’ll never get the accompanying smile; it sends me back to the bottle every night.

Love, what is it, but fleeting and temporary? Maybe, that’s poetic, though. Never does last because we don’t either. Oh, what am I doing? Philosophizing on a hangover day? Quite the whiskey, I’d say.

Rain begins to fall outside, which seems appropriate. Sliding off the bed, I move downstairs, past one of my painted portraits of her. That portrait in particular was my one-year anniversary gift to her. Unknown to me at the time, she was diagnosed that same day. Vying for more time with her, I brought her to every specialist possible, but it was all for naught.

With rain still pitter-pattering outside, I move to the kitchen and get a skillet out.

Xanax helped for the months after, but a friend told me to get off it before I got addicted, which feels somewhat ironic now.

Yolk fills the skillet, as I turn the burner down to medium. Zany hangover mood and all, this was our ritual every morning and since she left, I still do it, one broken egg at a time.

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