Eva perches upon the corner of the
narrow bed, and runs a hand across the sheets, crisp and white. They
smell of Clorox and this fact makes her laugh for no good reason.
"A laugh. That's unusual."
The man in the white coat leans against the wall, arms crossed.
Beside him is a rectangular window that allows her a narrow glimpse
of the outside world. The before world, as she has come to
think of it. The window's metal bars are unnecessary: No adult would
be able to squeeze through that opening. "What's funny?"
"The bleach." She crosses her
legs and sees that she's too thin. "My life has been completely
sanitized. Fresh and clean; new and white."
The man puts a frown on his face and
tilts his head. "What do you mean?"
"Where are my children?"
"Eva, I can't disclose..."
"My husband?"
"Eva, we agreed..."
"No. You agreed. You and whoever
else is listening in on our conversation." She tilts her head to
the ceiling. "I know you're there."
"No one is listening, Eva."
"Where am I?"
"Why does that matter?"
She shrugs, tired now.
He consults his watch, daintily holding
the square face between his thumb and forefinger. "I see our
time is up."
"No, please..."
He extracts a syringe from his pocket
and she notices that the stitching is just a tiny bit off, like a car
listing slightly to the left. He approaches the bed.
"They told me my life was
pedantic," she says, desperate now, as he takes her arm.
He nods and inserts the needle into her
vein. Just before the world goes dark again, she grabs his wrist. "I
only wanted to prove them wrong."
Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+Labels: flash fiction, Trifecta Writing Challenge