I wrote this for the 500 word flash fiction competition held by NYC Midnight. This was my fourth time participating in what has now been a yearly challenge.
My prompts:
GENRE: Thriller/Suspense
ACTION: Fulfilling an Obligation
OBJECT: Washing Machine
Art by Brett Wagner
He leaves a mark. Right where everyone can see.
He just can’t stop.
One spot there. Another little one here. Then they’re big. He thinks they’ll come out. Like bruises. Be forgotten. But this will end bad. He’s going to drown me.
Voices yell downstairs. He’s not happy.
We’re left in the closet. Thinks mom won’t look. Me and all the other victims crammed in this musty void. Doomed to repeat the cycle.
Again.
And again.
I can’t go through with it. I dislodge myself from the usual spot. Hide among the dust bunnies. Some protest my boldness, but they want out as much as I.
The argument boils over. A door slams shut.
Footfalls rattle the stairwell.
Floorboards rumble in the bedroom.
The door pops open.
I hear him push and pull at the others. Create the usual pile. He knows I’m not there. Shoves away the ones that don’t entice him. Digs.
His greasy palms latch onto my arms. I smell ketchup on his breath. Fried oil. He loves to eat right before. My belly catches on a nail. My arms nearly rip off before he notices and unhooks me.
Shoves me in the pile.
Stinky. Rotten.
I’m tired of this.
Waterboarded. Agitated. Hung out to dry.
He is too strong.
Carries us all in one container. One trip. Maintaining a firm grip and an even firmer balance down steep steps. Maybe if we lean our collective weight in one direction, we can end it. But it will take all of us.
I convince the others.
He hits the landing.
We slide left. The weight shift throws him.
He stumbles.
Trips.
Falls.
We spill out in a cascade of loose skins. Slap onto the floor. Inches from the door.
I can’t reach it.
His curses bounce off the walls. His mother scolds like a school teacher. She pays no mind to us. Useless unless useful.
We’re gathered and marched into the mildewed dungeon. Mold. Caking paint. Cold stone walls that narrow and converge on the machine.
I won’t survive this one.
I’ll rip at the seams.
He sets us on top of it. In view of its inner bowels.
Dark. Cavernous.
I know what’s coming.
He pushes us over.
I slip out. Slide into the crawl space between the machine and wall. Nearly hit a mousetrap. But he sees me. His hand slithers down like a python. Ensnares me. Constricts.
He douses me in bleach. Drops me in with the annoyance of a never-ending chore.
Starts the cycle.
The fragile fibers of my joints stretch. Plead. Untwine. I’m coming out of this wash in pieces.
His mother will be proud.
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