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End Scene: 500 Words a Day Fiction - Day 10 - kale & cigarettes
End Scene: 500 Words a Day Fiction – Day 10

End Scene: 500 Words a Day Fiction – Day 10

I’m leaving tomorrow to see my girlfriend in Colorado but all I can think about is her. We sit down at the table, my vision is trailing. My ears are deaf. All I can do is stare at her.

We’re in the extra bedroom at my parent’s house, whispering. She grabs some oil and starts jerking me off. She lets me play with her tits under her bra. She’s going to get me off.

She’s leaving tomorrow to take a trip with her sisters.

“I have to see you.”

“I can’t, I’m with my sisters. We’re leaving.”

“Sneak out. Now.”

“I can’t. You’re crazy.”

We’re in the car, I’m driving. Holding hands on her seat near her leg. She leans her head back on the seat, turns to look at me, smiles. There are mountains. The sun has just gone down. A sliver of a moon. I turn on Iron and Wine, she falls asleep, still smiling. I keep holding her hand.

I roll her on her back, my fingers under the covers, inside her. Her face. Arms over head, elbows out to the side. Tension. Pleasure. Release.

There’s a plastic bag in her back seat, it’s filled with trash. I grab it to throw away. I see an empty box, the morning after pill.

“What is this?”


“Why do you have this?”

“It doesn’t feel right anymore.”

She’s on the couch, curled up in a ball. The TV is on but it doesn’t matter. Sister asks if she wants to come out. Nothing.

Fade to black.

I’m smiling. There’s a girl. She’s pretty. Of course. They’re all pretty. My world is bright. My smile comes easily.

She sits up. Hair hammered to her face. Lips dry. Eyes swollen.

Lay down.


Lay the fuck down.


You’re not ready.

She wants to get up but she can’t.

The music is playing and we’re opening presents. It’s Aretha because my dad has a thing for black women on Christmas day. She’s wearing her PJ’s. It makes my mom happy. She’s sweet like that. I could leave everyone in that room behind as long as I had her. I’m getting a bunch of good shit. Camera lenses. We can go home and I’ll take her pictures.

Three roles of film sit on my bookshelf. I never got them developed. I know the pictures are good. Too good to see. Everything that has been tucked away will be ripped out of my stomach.

Scared to trust your own feet. When walking doesn’t even feel right. A shower is lost to nervousness and if you manage to do anything then you are doing it wrong. If all this suffering were laced up into a necklace it would fit so tightly around your neck. But the choking would be a greater companion than freedom. Freedom can only be ruined, never improved.

We missed each other once but the scars will be there. Tomorrow, and every day after.


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