Wednesday, January 4, 2012

100 WORD FLASH by Andie King

Dad slept in our greenhouse.

It's not as though he lived there, he came in for his meals, to watch telly and to have a wash but it's a small house and we don't have room for another bed.

He couldn't sleep on the floor, we'd keep tripping over him and it wasn't fair to make him sleep on a bunk bed with one of the kids on top. He had his privacy out there anyway.

We were all incredibly shocked when he died. It was very sudden and we still don't understand what happened.

Doctor said it was pneumonia.

You lie beneath the snow flocked ground, barely close enough to reach. I dig with bare hands, scrabble until my nails rip from my fingertips; blood soaks into damp, cold earth as I frantically try to find you.

Finally a glimpse of dirty pink satin, a shimmer of glitter and a hint of bone peeks out. Relieved I continue more cautiously, revealing you in fragments then finally lift you out.

Your party frock is ruined so I dress you in something new, purple this time. I kiss each broken bone before laying you back to rest.

Happy Birthday my Angel.
Little by little I watched you close yourself off from the world and I did nothing about it.

I saw it coming, I was complicit in it happening and I cover for you every time.

I'm not ignorant of the shoes caked in mud, the clothes that disappear or the car that constantly needs cleaning.

On the news, a local girl is reported missing and you are suddenly engaged, transfixed, studying her friends and family as they hopelessly appeal for information.

A mother always knows. Your mother never tells.
BIO: Andie King, a 31 year old wife and mother living in High Wycombe and working as an administrator.  Recently started writing again and loves literature, cookery, cinema and theatre.

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