by Rachael Blackwood

Your ribs expand yet your breath catches twice before you scream. As you scream, you close your eyes and all you see is blood.

Someone died today and the blood drips through your hands. Your face is wet and your lap is wet and the overhead light buzzes ‘I-know’. Your eyes know but your brain overheats as the fluttering flickers your pupils.

You’re frozen on the spot but a hinge creaks and your hands, they stutter and they shake. It’s okay, she says, and pats your back and you’re five years old hiding under the stairs.

You’re on the way to nowhere and yet now you’re here.  You’re here and here is somewhere but Someone is not there. Not here. Nowhere. It’s a nightmare but it is not night.

Not right, but to your right she’s opening the door again and it squeaks again and you’re five again. Five perfect little hands, you think, and then realise that’s not right either.

Can I see, you squeak, and wish you hadn’t. Your brain is catching up with your eyes. She doesn’t answer just pushes the door wider and he shuffles in.  His eyes are catching up too so you squeeze yours tight and black him out.

And then you laugh abrupt and hollow, bah, as that’s kind of how you slew Someone.  So you squeeze your eyes tighter and wish him dead too.  Instead, he slips his fingers between yours and the blood fills the gaps like mortar.


Rachael Blackwood writes, reads, loves, and laughs. Her current internet home is here.

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  1. Published on Capsule Fiction | rachael blackwood

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