This post is part of Writer’s Digest February Flash Fiction Challenge. Flash Fiction is a short, often under 1,000 words, style of writing. I hope you enjoy my 28 contributions!
Day 26 Prompt: Write About an Article of Clothing
Note: This story may be upsetting for some readers – discretion advised!
They say you know. Whether it’s intuition or probability, you know. Despite the number of times she told herself it wasn’t her, that they made a mistake, she knew.
When she was late for dinner, they were hardly concerned. Nothing a simple text couldn’t solve. When they finished dinner, a phone call sufficed. A voicemail, a tepid question of her whereabouts, but nothing more. When late night arrived, and their phones remained silent, unease strangled them.
They called her friends, apologizing for bothering them so late, but their nerves were starving for information, for an explanation of her absence. High on fear and adrenaline, unable to sleep, they called the police in the early hours of the morning.
Fifteen. Brunette. 5’6”. Approximately 117 lbs. Soccer Practice. Every weekday after school. Ended around 5:00pm. Rode her bike home. Purple backpack. Jeans, maybe? White shirt? Maybe wearing her soccer outfit? Diamond stud earrings.
Time moved impossibly slow. They waited next to their phones in between police interviews. He remained stoic, publicly. A rock that she could lean on as torment ate her up from the inside out. But privately, he wept. He anguished. She couldn’t see him like that, he knew. He was the only sense of normalcy left in her life and he needed to be her pillar.
Two days. There’s a time when your mind travels to the depths of depravity, assuming the worst, maybe knowing the worst. But then an awful, torturous sense of hope eats away at that assumption. Soon, that horrible hope is what you cling to. Soon, hope was all she had left. So when they were called to the station, she told herself there must be a mistake.
As they stood above the cold metallic table, staring down at the shiny, black bag, her hope was eroding. Almost mercifully. He tugged the zipper down while she squeezed her husband’s hand. Damp, matted hair. Pale white skin littered with black and blue blotches. Their daughter’s small, perfect nose and plump purple lips. Two tiny diamond studs.
