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When she stepped inside the dimly lit hallway, she feigned ignorance. She pretended everything was fine. Words didn’t matter, feelings didn’t matter. It would be just for a few short weeks.

But the door closed with a thud, a heavy thud that echoed her false confidence. It didn’t even creak in the moth-eaten wood. It left her alone and unprepared, basking in the oppressive silence of the house.

Nothing could be heard but the ticking of the grandfather clock.

Tick-tick-tick.

So she proceeded to unpack.

Clothes in an assortment of morbid shades; pewter, slate, charcoal. A shade for every throbbing pulse within her, unwinding her very core. As it unwound she felt herself losing all sense of reason. A few childhood toys, a bedraggled owl and grimy shark poking out from under her dress.

The evening dress still had flecks of blood on its collar.

She perused the calendar, labeled the ominous December ninth. She had exactly twenty-seven days to go.

Smoothing out her skirt and running her hands through her hair, she began to wait.

 

 

You can read more of my flash fiction here!

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt

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