48 HOUR GENRE SMASH FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE RUNNER UP (2)

and the runner up is…

Maya Martin

POOR FEAR RIA

It’s been two days. I’m starving.

I pass time by watching the chimes on the porch. 

Cling. Cling. Cling. 

I rock in my chair, hide from the sun, and avoid judgment from the vacant chair next to mine. Heatwaves shiver above the ground. The old dog mopes. She won’t last much longer without Mary. Neither will I. The young dog watches the flat hills, empty roads, and dry river beds. His tail is always tucked. He does what he can.

I have made food but I don’t remember eating any of it. My stomach twists. The plates are emptied, washed, and put away. My legs ache and my arms are tired. I do what I can. The horses stand by the gate and I water them like crops. They graze and I watch them fatten themselves, veins thickening along their necks. The young dog chases the few cattle left around, and around, and around. I call him back and he cowers on the porch. He doesn’t come in the house, even for food. His food is only eaten if the house is empty. 

I have searched the closets, the halls, and the floorboards. I’m alone. 

I blame the house for my appetite. It consumes more than I can provide. The walls are full with delicious photographs of rosy-cheeked Mary, deer skulls picked clean, and splintering wood beams for the house to scrape its teeth with. I added splashes of red to widen its palette, yet it still demands more.

In the evening, I am smoking with the fire. The young dog howls at the moon like a coyote, the old dog whines at the door. The dining table is cleared. I smoke another cigarette, and another, and another. My lungs are more relaxed than my stomach. 

I splash water on my face. My teeth have taken to chewing my tongue out of desperation. I’m sore. There are blisters on my arm. It was grazed by the morning sun. It itches. 

The bed is empty when I lay in it. There is an indent. It is two days old.

***

It’s been three days.

Cling. Cling. Cling.

I rock in my chair and hide from the sun. The chair next to me is empty. The sky is grey, the heatwaves ripple along a patchy crimson earth. The old dog is dead. The young dog watches the rusted hills, dusty roads, and bleeding river beds. His tail is tucked. He will not come near the porch. 

I have made food again, but I have no memory of eating it. I wash, dry, and put the plates away. By noon, my left arm cannot move. I do what I can. I put on a coat. The horses are waiting and I refill their trough with a hose. The young dog stays hidden. The cattle are grazing, pulsing, fattening veins. Nobody is in the house. I checked. I am starving. 

I pick what’s left of Mary’s grey cheeks, dry veins, and splintered bones I use to scrape my teeth. My stomach growls. I cannot last without Mary.

Evening. I smoke with the fire. The young dog is silent. The dining table is cleared. I smoke, and smoke, and smoke. I wash plates, I wash cutlery, I wash the splash of colour from my face. 

I discover another blister from the morning sun. I have many. The sun is hungry, too. My arm itches. I cough. My chest flutters. 

The bed is empty. There’s an indent, now three days old. It’s still warm. 

***

It’s been four days.

I’m still starving.

Cling.

Cling. 

Cling.