A defeat (New flash fiction story)

randomchild

Hello boards! New story hot off the word processor. As always please leave a comment whether you enjoyed it or not and if you did please check out my other stuff!

A Defeat by Jonathan Shortall

A white painted door is ruptured open and a glimmer of light shines in to the void beyond. Loud music and louder chatter have seeped into the previously remote bathroom. However the foothold is lost as easily as it was won and the door is closed once more. Darkness and silence are left triumphant. During this clash, a woman has entered. Her head is set back to rest against the door left slightly ajar behind her. Tears fall to the carpet while her sighs are gone to mingle with the air. Her hand is risen to wipe her eyes, but it is a fruitless endeavour: it can only cover them in shame. Shame derived from the blind judgement of the darkness that fills the room, shame that can be so nutritious in the world outside and shame that is sourced from within: the only kind that is important. To flee looks like an impossibility; to sink into the quagmire of her mind is the best that she can hope to achieve. Her back is slowly slipping down the door, but it can provide no friction to halt her retreat to the floor. Why didn’t he come?

Time is marching on: in minutes in the world past the door, lifetimes within its boundary. The sweet taste of lust and betrayal still lingers on her lips. The smell of imitation cologne has gained a hold over her nostrils. She recoils again and again against those fingers that softly paced up her thigh, but the lost battles of history cannot be re-fought. Outside, some lovers seemed to have withdrawn from the party and they force an inversion of their privacy as they traverse the stairs. One presses another into the bathroom door, in what must be a clumsy embrace. The unlocked door has budged slightly under their weight, but cannot open fully. The intruders must understand that the room is under occupation for a giggled apology has found its way through the key hole. Their footsteps bring them to the left, probably into the guest bedroom. The sight of their kissing and fondling in the dark is left to the girl’s imagination. She stares into the darkness: it is filled with mostly loathing and pity. Realise how hungry it is to hold her in its arms, to make her defeat complete. Why isn’t he seducing me, guiding me towards the bedroom?

Nothing is left in her being to fight a rearguard but flickering images: memories, alternate scenarios and fantasies, all with one common denominator. But there is unknowable strength in even these illusions: they wave over what has come before and guide her back from the brink with smiles and whispered words. Now, and only now, is she able to wipe the tears from her eyes and push herself off the floor. She does not need any guide to move to the mirror above the sink, the darkness cannot hinder her approach. A tug on the string and light bathes the room in its harsh splendour. She stands ready for inspection in front of the mirror. The mascara that was running down her face unchecked is removed. Her sandy blonde hair, dishevelled and worn, is soon back to regimented formation. Her tank-top and bra is haltered back up to attention. He didn’t come.

A cap of mouth wash is filled to its top, downed and gargled. This is met by the alcohol that she has consumed over the night. It senses a weakness in her armour, a chance for liberation. Don’t vomit. Her hand moves up to her mouth to plug the gap, Please don’t vomit, but it is unnecessary. Nothing comes: her defences hold and the nausea is subsiding. The mouthwash that waited in reserve is spit out: the tastes of the night go with it. The sink is quickly cleansed of their presence with water. Slow breaths over the sink allow for her mind to rally and her thoughts to regroup after the assault. Her posture is reasserted, while a new grin is donned. A quick glance in the mirror one last time before the light is turned off and she makes for the door.

Her hand is on the doorknob when it happens. Caught off guard and out of position, she must dive to the toilet, clutching the rim for support. Given the opportunity, the poison is ruthless: one last surge and it is through the breach and into the water below. Now defeated, to her the seat seems an apt pillow to rest her head. Several coughs and splutters threaten further humiliation but they never manifest. Why is he not come? Tears are welling up in her eyes but she has no reserves to fight them with. She can slide over to the corner of the bathroom, her head (and her tail) between her legs, to wallow in darkness for the rest of the night.

Through the open window on the far wall, the sound of a bottle smashing on the patio below is met by cheers and laughter. The carousing has been renewed with vigor as the drunken inanity of a comrade is widely celebrated. To those outside it is a mere distraction; a folly. Inside the bathroom it is a powerful surge of support, a cavalry charge that routs all her problems, all her disgraces and all her worries. A reminder that he may not have come, but they have. She stands up once more, this time never to fall down again. The toilet is flushed but the stain in her mouth is left unmolested (a scar with a story behind it is always worth keeping). The door is open and shut. She grabs the bottle of beer left outside the door and marches back down the stairs. She is laughing before she can reach the hall.

© Jonathan Shortall 08-06-08