Small House of Everything

Small House of Everything

Monday, February 28, 2011


Here's another response to Patti Abbott's recent Flash Fiction Challenge.  For more responses from much more talented people than I, go to Patti's blog Pattinase.

                                                                    I DON'T REALLY MIND

I don't mind the scars.  I really don't.

     Yes, it hurts at times and at times it itches like hell, but that's minor.  I can honestly say I don't mind them.

     For a while, after the accident, I have to admit it did bother me.  I mean, it was a shock when they took off the bandages.  You know that guy from Batman, Two-Face?  Well, the was me, except I was One-Face, or maybe Full-Face.  See?  I can laugh at it now.  That's because it all worked out for the best.  Honestly.

    Of course, Peter left.  I can't blame him.  I mean, it was to be expected.  But he didn't leave all of a sudden.  No, not Peter.  He hung around for a while, but all the time I could feel him drifting away.  Then he was gone.  Just as well.  Tracey had told me a couple of days before the accident that Peter was going to give me a ring, he was just working up his nerve.  He never got around to it before the accident.  And afterwards?  Well, why bother?  I'm pretty sure he returned the ring before he left me.  I never saw it.  I wouldn't want him to feel chained to me out of guilt.

     It took a while for me to get used to my new face and it took a while to get used to living with my new face.  Luckily, Mum and Daddy left me the house in the country.  Isolated.  No neighbors nearby.  No kids around to point and laugh, or to run away screaming.

     I'm lucky.  My needs are simple.  I do my work over the computer.  No human contact.  The supermarket delivers my order directly to my front porch.  I have a quiet, isolated life and that suits me just fine.  I see I've used the word "isolated" twice just now, but that's okay.  I like to call a spade a spade.  That's how I am.  I don't really need people and I guess they don't really need me.  Their loss, I say.

.     Anyway, I like the look of my face now.  It has character.  It has strength.  It gives me power.  Sometime, though, at night, I dream of the accident, of smashing through the windshied when the airbag failed to deploy, of being propelled through the air, of landing fortuitously, breaking a number of bones, but none of the important ones -- no broken neck or spine.  A slow recovery, but with the ability to walk.  When I have those dreams, I wake up sweat-filled and gasping for breath.  But the accident is in the past and I have gone beyond that.  It no longer bothers me.

     Anya, of course, got away with only a few bruises and a broken nose.  Her airbag worked.  So, despite her supremo alcohol level, she lucked out and wasn't impaled by the steering wheel.  I'm glad she's okay.  She never was as strong as me and wouldn't be able to go through all that I did.  She had just a short time healing, then she was as good, and as cute, as ever.

     Peter, of course, felt sorry for her.  He's that type of guy.  He cares.  He spent some of his time trying to comfort her and he comforted her right into bed.  I didn't mind.  By that time we were over; at least, I think we were.  It doesn't matter.  I learned that I was happier -- stronger -- being alone.  Anya could never be happy alone.  She's the type who needs someone to build her up, to tell her how pretty she is, to service her many demands in bed.  Well, different strokes, I guess.

     I called her -- Anya -- last night.  Told her I needed to see her.  Needed to tell her something about Peter, something important she needed to know.  Oh, she was relunctant, but I convinced her to come by, warning her not to let Peter or anyone else know.  I really don't think she likes to look me in the face.

     She didn't really get a chance to look at my face.  At first I was afraid I had killed her when I hit her.  She just collapsed, boom, as if she was a puppet whose strings were cut.  And she bled.  There was a lot of blood, but when I felt her pulse it seemed strong.

     She's screaming now, but only I can hear her.  She thrashes, but she can't get out of her bonds.

     I've uncapped the acid.  I'm ready.

    I don't mind my scars, really.  After a while, I'm sure, Anya won't mind hers.


  1. Ok, what's with all the Russian named women in these stories? I hestitate to say nicely done, but uh, nicely done. Revenge burns.

  2. A nasty little tale of revenge but a good one!