Sometimes It’s Hard to Let Go – Flash Fiction

‘Should I toss the knife?’ She was not sure what to do next. The plan had escaped her now that his blood was on her hands. She looked down at her wrists and watched in amazement as the wounds closed up. ‘What the hell? My wounds?’

Like a startled cat, she turned and sprinted down the alley in the pouring rain with the knife in hand. A jumble of thoughts racing through her head. Something wasn’t right here, how did her wounds just heal up like that? It wasn’t her style not to be in control every second of a ‘job.’ That left her open, sloppy, and with a bigger chance of her meeting her maker.

Passing a dumpster, she makes the fluid motion of tossing the knife into it’s waiting abyss in hopes the blade would live out its final days among the foul city garbage. Once it was thrown away, nobody would see the knife again, and if they did, they wouldn’t know where it came from.

Step one of taking control accomplished! Get rid of the knife.

Looking down, startled like a cat that stepped on a piece of tape, a subtle wave of shock crosses her mind as she sees that the knife never left her hand. No matter what she tried, the blade was welded in her grip, and her fingers are not making the slightest promise of letting go. Two thoughts cross her mind, one, more confusion, the other, the cops would be here soon, she had to get out of here. Time to go.

1 Hour After the Incident

Still soaked from the rain, she paces back and forth in the kitchen of her cramped and dreary apartment.

The knife, still firmly in her grasp, and not because she wanted it to be there either.

What the hell was going on here? Not knowing the answer, and feeling the fingers of losing control crawl down her spine, she was starting to get beside herself. This was not good, and she didn’t like the feeling. Playing the last few moments of her flight in the rain over and over in her mind, she couldn’t figure out why the knife was still stuck? She could not drop it! It was very much as part of her right now, as her own skin.

Instinct told her, it was time to take control. It was time to get rid of the evidence and professionally once and for all. Forget about this night like it never happened.

24 Hours After the Incident

Sitting at her kitchen table, exhausted, smoking a cigarette to calm her nerves. A glass of vodka sitting beside the ashtray. After the last 24 hours, felt a bit annoyed and now a bit drunk, she glares at the knife in her hand.

She tried a few things to get rid of the blade over the last hours. She tried soaking her hand in hot water. She tried using another knife to pry it her fingers from around it.  She even tried to slam the end of the blade against the table over and over again. All attempts were futile.

Never knowing the meaning of defeat, she continues to try and figure out her options.

192 Hours After the Incident

‘Fuck! Fuck you knife!’ Feeling hopeless, angry, furious, and sitting on the fine line of insanity, she screams at the top of her lungs at the knife! ‘Get the fuck out of my hand!’

No luck.

912 Hours After the Incident

She fell over the edge of in the world of the sanity about 3 days before, landing right in the middle of the big fluffy world most people would call insanity.

She stopped yelling at the knife three weeks ago, talking two weeks ago, and she barely ate or drank anything in the last week.  Personal hygiene was out the window right from the start when this mess began, after all, how many of us ever tried to wash our hair with a 9-inch knife in our hand? After the time of neglect, the results were nothing but gross.

A plan finally came to her. Call it a desperate act of survival, or the thoughts of a lunatic. Call it whatever, over the last few days an idea came to her mind that played over and over like a skipping record. Acting on autopilot instead of reason, she figured out, that now is the time to finish this shit.

912.5 Hours Later After the Incident

Standing at the cash register, with her purchase already bagged, she struggles with her one free hand to get her money out of her jacket pocket. To most, she looked like a drunk lady and smelled like something died in her pocket. Well, that is if there was anybody around at 3:15 in the morning to see her. The only person around was the cashier.

Eyeing her, the clerk states the obvious, ‘You don’t look good, lady. Are you ok?’

She stops digging for the money and stares back at the clerk.

‘Look, lady, I need you to hurry up. Either pay up or move along.’

No response.

’ Ok, obviously you aren’t going to pay for this!’ The clerk reaches for the bag to clear it and it’s contents off of the countertop.  Quickly, with both hands, she makes a grab for the bag.  To her, she was reaching for her lifeline. To the clerk, it looked like she was sticking him up with a knife!

Throwing up his hands in a panic, ’ Whoa lady, take it easy! Here take the bag! On the house! Just don’t stab me!

She picks up the bag, swiping it like a tomcat slapping a mouse, she heads out of Happy Harry’s Hardware.

915.5 Hours Later After the Incident

Back in her apartment, she lays on the bathroom floor of her apartment, with a towel wrapped around a bloody stump. In her other hand, her makeshift surgery tool, a hacksaw. In the sink, her hand with the knife which had let go.

Her plan had worked. Her hand dropped the knife.

Smiling to her self, she slowly unwraps her bandages, causing her smile to turn into a grimace of pain. What a bloody mess. Then carefully she picks up her detached hand and lines it up where it was slowly sawed off just moments before. It didn’t’ take long for her to start to feel the familiar feeling of her body healing itself as the hand fixes itself back on to her arm.

She flexes her fingers, although a bit sore still, her hand was was almost like new.

The only thing was, there was still one problem. What to do with the knife? ‘Should I toss the knife?’ She was not sure what to do next.


 

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2 thoughts on “Sometimes It’s Hard to Let Go – Flash Fiction”

  1. Good story. I hope you don’t mind me making a comment, helpful, I hope. It’s intended to be, anyway.
    You keep changing tense in the story. It’s somewhat disconcerting. Choose one and stick to it.

    Like

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