Fiction Index

Like Nothing Ever Happened

Without a Goodbye

When I Don't Know Where to Go

Like Nothing Ever Happened

He pats the sofa and smiles. The floral patterns in pink and burgundy blur, swallowing his hand and then quickly releasing. I watch him, making sure not to get too close. He shifts his weight, leans back against the Victorian style seat draping his right arm over the edge. He has thick glasses and thick hair peppered black and white. His gray mustache feels prickly against smooth skin.

My mother's voice echoes. I look over the edge of the sofa. The partition between the living room and the kitchen fades in and out. The white wall holds pictures of faces I never knew but always focus on. Suddenly the wall vanishes. I see my mom and her friend sitting on stools at the black granite counter. Her friend rolls out tiny balls of clay. Sunny yellows and baby blues create beautiful clay bouquets that adorn her house. I watch my mother. Her brown hair reaches the middle of her back. It curls and bounces with no signs of age. She wears a lavender collared shirt with faded jeans and little white Keds. There's little makeup on her face, thin lines form around her eyes and mouth as she laughs. She has a cup of coffee in her right hand - most likely black. She eats pan dulce.

My mother's friend, like her husband on the sofa, is older. Her white hair brightens her creamy complexion. Her small brown eyes are full of softness. She rolls a pink piece of clay in her right palm pressing gently with her left hand. The ball travels over the ridges of her palm. She flattens the piece of clay with her thumb and index fingers. Turning the clay clockwise and spreading it out, a delicate petal is formed. The wall reappears and I strain to see into the kitchen. A giant floral arrangement that reaches the ceiling appears on the counter. I try to yell to my mother. They need to stop working and pay attention.

I step forward and reach out to my mother with a little girl's hand with little girl fingers and little girl nails painted red. A pull comes from the sofa. I try to step back but feel a push from behind me. I swing around but nothing is there.

I sit on the sofa too tired to fight. The material scratches at my legs and I'm afraid it will make me bleed. I turn my body and look over my right shoulder noticing that the wall with its unfamiliar faces is back. I turn my head to the left and see him sitting with his old brown hands resting on his knees. He's wearing slacks, loafers and a black shirt. He gets up. I hold my breath. He pulls his glasses off with his right hand, reaches into his pocket with his left hand pulling out a red handkerchief. He wipes the sweat off his brow and turns to face me. He smiles.

I panic. Suddenly he is sitting next to me. I smell a mixture of beer and cigarettes. His hand is over my tiny right knee. The gold band on his finger glows brightly against my white skirt. My brown legs are exposed. I have a scab on my knee from falling off my pink bicycle. A little bit of dried blood has formed around the scab from picking at it. His hand travels up my knee and up my thigh. I think about running away but he likes to grab me by the waist. I think about crawling away but he'll just drag me back by my legs. I panic, try to yell but can only whisper "Mommy."

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Without A Goodbye

I find myself facing the crusty yellow wall of the corner liquor store. The same store my brother and I frequented as children where we bought candy and firecrackers to scare our parents with. I take a couple of steps forward trying to find the entrance. I search for the rickety wooden doors and it becomes darker all around me. Finally, I realize a solid white door is replacing the broken doors. I gently push but it won't budge so I turn facing down the street to wait for him.

I can't understand why I always go back to 11 years old but it's the same every night. I'm somewhere in Tijuana, where dirt roads out number paved roads and the smell of burning trash follows you around. I walk down the street feeling smaller with every step I take. I come across my grandmother's house to the right. The black fence towers over me looking menacing and unwelcoming. It is metal with a foot between each of the rod's, which are shaped as an arrow at the tip. Similar bars cover each window to ward off intruders. A light comes from a window on the far left of the house. My grandmother must be sitting in the living room. The house is painted pistachio, the only shade of paint she could afford. A big black dog runs out of the right side of the house. It startles me but I don't feel afraid. It stands in the middle of the dirt courtyard with its snout pointed towards the air. Its ears perk up as he tries to find a scent. Suddenly, he scurries off into the back of the house.

I continue walking down the street until I see the old manhole. It always happens on the only paved road in the city. I look up the street trying to peer over the hill but the road and the houses fade away. Suddenly the taxicab is already next to the manhole. I hear hollowed laughter and watch a black shadow come out of the driver's side. The shadow's laughter continues and I run out into the street standing in front of it.

I hear my father's motorcycle. He'll be here soon but I can't do anything to make the shadow get back in the cab. I'm too afraid to touch it and can't find my voice to yell. My father pulls up, takes off his black helmet and I see his brown eyes. I look at his skin, sun kissed and youthful looking despite years of drinking and smoking. I look into his eyes but he doesn't see me. I want to reach out my hand to touch him and I try to tell him to run but my voice fails me again.

The shadow comes in close to my right ear. I feel the iciness of what it was. "He left you anyway. Didn't even say goodbye." I feel the shot go off. There is a sound but all I can feel is ringing in my ears. A piercing feeling goes through my body. I'm convinced I'm shot. I clutch my stomach prepared to feel the inside of me ooze out. I look down at my hands, there's no blood, just the hands of a little girl. I look up at my father and there is a hole in his right eye. He stands there, frozen, with the same indifferent look he has given me all my life.

I yell and run past my grandmother's house, towards the liquor store. A wall has formed and there is no way for me to get out and I whirl around, realizing that yellow decaying walls have enclosed the entire street. I look towards my father and the taxicab is gone with the shadow. My father is on the floor face down and the ground around him is moving. I realize that it is the blood spilling out of his body that makes the ground look alive so I push and pound on the wall but nothing happens. A pool of blood begins to form and quickly it reaches my shoes and then it begins to crawl up my legs and arms. I yell to my father for help but already know nothing will happen.

My room becomes visible and I remember that I am at home. I realize that my mother might have heard me yelling from my room. I throw my beige blanket back and crawl out of bed. Quietly I pull my door open and listen out for signs of motion in my house. I hear the shower running in my mother's room. I walk down the hallway to the bathroom. My body aches all over, my muscles feel sore and my lower back feels stiff.

I go into the bathroom, rinse out my mouth with cool water and stare into the mirror. My brown eyes sink into my face with shadows casting dark circles around them. I can't keep going like this. I pull away from my reflection and sit down on the toilet wondering if my mom heard me. I get up to flush the toilet and realize that I have started my period.

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When I Don't Know Where to Go

Dan rests between my 720 thread count sheets. The gold horizontal striped design pushes in every other direction crushed under the weight of his body. The warm beige blanket that usually covers my bed is thrown on the floor in a careless heap. He faces me, using his right arm to prop up his head in fashion reminiscent of a Greek god. He smirks cocks his left eyebrow upward as if his face alone could make me want him. His body is naked except for the hair that runs rampant all over his blotchy pink flesh. It is in a constant state of disorder attempting to go in all directions even into deep dark crevices that will never see daylight. It all begins in his upper torso, which becomes the mecca for the mane on his body. His chest is a jungle that grows vines all the way down to his legs. His head and manhood are the only things bare. I observe the area between his legs, spotted and brown with scabs from razor burn. It pulls up towards the left fighting gravity all the way. It seems not to care what I think of it and the ugly mounds that nestle beneath it. They look like one giant black mass although I know there are two. They are encrusted in black but at times hint at purple and blue. They rest on his right leg and slowly spread out like melting tar.

He doesn't seem to care that he is bald and that some of the fur that covers his arms resembles pubic hair. He looks at me, in all of his glory, hoping to seduce me. I look back at him in pity. I look out the window behind him and the sun is out. The blinds are shut but the light is bright enough that it seeps in through little cracks. I turn around, face the door and grab the knob. I study the wall for a minute, noticing pictures that hold blurred faces of friends and families. The merlot color of the walls that always sooth me now look crimson and unfamiliar.

I turn the knob, open the door and walk out of my bedroom turning right to go down the brown wooden hallway of my house. The white walls of the hallway go on and on with each step. I walk into the kitchen past the living room where my brother is sitting on the sofa. He has his blue Navy uniform on and is laughing. The remote control for the television is in his right hand and his feet rest on the coffee table. I want to tell him to get his black boots off the table but don't want to scare him off. Instead I tell him I miss him and that I can't understand why he would leave. He doesn't hear me. I keep walking, not waiting for a response, and I go into the kitchen. My mom is standing at the cutting board with flour in her hands as she rolls out a little white ball. She is making flour tortillas. I look over to the stove where smashed brown beans simmer. Occasionally, a volcano of beans erupts and a small cloud of air escapes from the pan.

I realize that my mother is cooking for my father. She tells me not to leave and not to look at Dan's hair. She says I can learn to appreciate him. She wants to know why I just can't settle. I shake my head and keep walking out of the kitchen and open the wooden front door of the house. Immediately I see my father standing in front of me. His right eye is gushing blood and red liquid spurts every where. The blood quickly covers my hands and face as I try to desperately shield myself from it. I scream and scream but nothing happens. My father grabs my arm and tells me, "You don't even love him. He'll leave you anyway." I break free and lose my footing as I try to hold on to the frame of the door and fall to the ground. I scoot back on the floor using my legs to slam the door shut.

My stomach hurts and the room is spinning as I try to figure out the cause behind my pain. I keep telling Dan he drives me to drink. He thinks I'm joking. I open my eyes painfully aware of the repercussions of binge drinking. I am about to shut my eyes but am distracted by the crust of white saliva resting on my brown shoulder. I look over at Dan, snoring and unaware his naked body, still the same.

I become sick again and rest my head back on my pillow closing my eyes. I rub my eyes with both hands and attempt to perch myself up on my elbows. I look out of the window and notice that most of the grass in my backyard is almost dead. The lawn mower my mother gave us as a house warming gift sits in a corner, useless. I listen to the sounds of a Saturday morning, birds chirping and children laughing. I look at Dan one more time and turn to look at the door. It is already open.

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