Sharing something a little different today!
I have been in the biggest creative rut these past two weeks and to try and claw my way out of said rut, I Googled ‘flash fiction prompts’ yesterday and stumbled upon this one, which prompts the writer to write a story ‘set in the aftermath’. I immediately had an idea that is really backstory for something bigger I am working on and thought it might be fun to share.
This is the first time I am sharing fiction on here and I am so nervous, but welcome any and all feedback, positive or negative!
He wakes up feeling like absolute fucking shit. Pounding head, cotton mouth, churning stomach, pressure behind his eyes.
And that’s just the physical.
It takes a second or two for the mental to catch up — for him to remember —but when it does, it hits him like a freight train. Hurts more than any hit he’s ever taken.
He opens his eyes, sees the floral bedsheets that don’t belong to him and the sleeping body that doesn’t belong to Annabel, and squeezes them shut again. Says a silent prayer that this is just a nightmare. That he’ll open his eyes again and be in bed at the hotel. Feels like a fucking idiot when he finally opens them and is exactly where he was.
Fucking fuck.
As quietly as possible, so to not wake the sleeping girl whose name he can’t remember — if he ever even knew it at all — he climbs out of bed. Finds his discarded boxer briefs on the floor, pulls them on, and sets about finding the rest of his clothes.
“Where are you going?” He hears a female voice, rough with sleep, ask as he’s stepping into his jeans.
He pauses, one pant leg pulled up to his thigh, and glances at the girl. She’s propped up on one elbow gazing over at him.
“I’ve, uh, got work soon,” he says.
It’s not a lie. Not really. He has to get back to the hotel so he doesn’t miss the bus to the airport. Technically, being on time for travel and shit is part of his job, ergo, it’s not a lie.
The girl narrows her eyes and he notices the dark remnants of last night’s makeup smudged in the corners. This makes him think of Annabel, the way she always insists on removing her makeup before she crawls into bed with him. Meticulous no matter what time they get home or how much she’s had to drink. Shame washes over him like a tidal wave.
“On a Saturday?” The girl asks. “Where did you say you work?”
He wishes he could remember what he told her. Whether it was the truth or a lie or if the subject never came up at all.
“No where special.”
The way she’s looking at him, so intent, like she doesn’t quite believe him, has him feeling more anxious than he already was. He finishes getting dressed as quickly as he can and thanks his lucky fucking stars his phone and wallet are in the pockets of his jeans. If he had to look for them right now, he would seriously consider just ditching them.
“Well, I gotta —” he says, at the same time she asks, “Do you want my number?”
He winces. Swallows the bile that’s trying to force it’s way up his throat.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he tells her. “It’s not you,” he adds, when hurt flashes across her face. “Like, seriously, it’s not you.”
She huffs a sort of mirthless sounding laugh and flops back in her bed. Wraps the floral comforter tight against her body like a coat of armor. “Let me guess, girlfriend?”
He can’t meet her eyes when he tells her he’s sorry. So fucking sorry.
“Save it for your girlfriend, dude,” she snaps and, like, fair enough. He deserves that. Deserves more than that.
“I’m just gonna —” He gestures toward her bedroom door and excuses himself without another word.
When he gets to the hallway outside of her apartment, he leans against the wall and slides to the floor. Folds himself into a ball, head to his knees, arms wrapped around his shins. He wants to make himself as small as possible. Hopes that if he makes himself small enough, he’ll disappear all together.
He’s made a lot of mistakes. Said and done a lot of things he regrets. But he doesn’t think he’s ever hated himself quite as much as he does right now.
He takes a few deep breaths, tries to collect himself just enough to pull his phone out of his pocket and order an Uber back to the hotel. He’s almost there, almost ready, when he feels his phone buzz. An incoming call. His hands are shaking as he reaches for it.
And of course, it’s Annabel’s face that fills the screen. Annabel’s face — beautiful and bright, laughing at whatever he’s saying behind the camera.
It paralyzes him. He wants to answer, but he can’t. Physically can’t. Can’t get his trembling fingers to cooperate. To swipe across the screen, to answer the damn call.
Instead, he’s stuck staring at the contact photo until the tears clouding his vision distort it. Until the tears turn Annabel’s face into nothing but a pixelated blur.
oh this is good!