From the wreckage
Short-short #7
Every month, a bit of flashfic!
She’s walking by herself, slow, in the dark. Road is dirt, rocks, empty, makes her feel exposed. No trees, no shelter—just her and the stars, and even the stars feel more like staring eyes than guiding lights. If things were different, she thinks, this would all feel peaceful. She should feel safe, she thinks, since there’s no place around for anyone to hide. She doesn’t.
When he comes up behind her, she has to clench every muscle in her body to keep from jumping.
He’s not walking fast. Faster than her, maybe, but she assumes it’s a speed that’s normal for him. A man-gait, the way people with long legs walk, without even thinking about it. She wonders where he came from, how she didn’t see him coming ten, twenty minutes ago, but she already knows the answer: because she won’t (can’t) look back.
He’s coming up beside her now, and she’s wincing, just waiting for him to pass, but he doesn’t. She doesn’t look back at him, but the gait slows, matches hers, till his footsteps sound like echoes. Otherwise, he’s silent, beside her, staying close but coming no closer.
“Beautiful night,” he says, as if beauty is a thing that still exists, as if there isn’t an inferno behind them.
“Yeah,” she mumbles.
“How long have you been walking?”
Her whole life. All day. All week. Since the moment everything exploded. What answer is he looking for?
“I just ask because—well—most people don’t walk this road at night.”
“And yet,” she says, “here you are.”
He laughs. Just a little, politely. Some air through the nose. “Look,” he says, “I’m not trying to offend. I’m just saying it can be dangerous to be out here by yourself—”
“I’m not here by choice.” Her response comes out faster, angrier, than she meant it to, but she feels oddly satisfied at how quickly it shut him up. She knows it’s stupid to imagine he’s intimidated by her, but she still feels better, thinking he is.
He’s quiet for a while. Their feet crunch the gravel. He coughs—whether genuinely or just to fill the silence, she doesn’t know. She feels the heat of the blaze on her back.
And finally, he whispers, “No, none of us are.”
He says it quietly enough that it blends into the distant roar of the fire, and for a moment, she wonders if he even said it at all. He’s silent after that, though—so silent that at first she wonders where he went, until she realizes he’s passing her. Quickened his pace, went back to the man-gait of before, and soon he’s pulling ahead, and she lets him, even slows her own pace till he’s safely in the distance. She finds herself wondering what else he would have said if he’d stuck around longer, but of course the answer’s nothing, because he didn’t. She presses on, toward the things she doesn’t know, with the things she once did ever-burning behind her. 🕹🌙🧸
⬅️ In case you missed it: The robots are paying thousands to read my book (haha, suckers)
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