Fiction
Charley Allen
Negative Space
Candlelight flickers across her cheeks, making prisms of
the tears still dripping as she sleeps. I brush diamonds from her face with the back of my hand
and drop a quiet kiss on the crown of her head, before slowly sliding
from underneath her weight. She never stirs. With the sedative, she will sleep
until morning.
But, I never sleep on nights like this. I clean
instead. I start with the bottle of sedatives, the suture kit and the sterile remnants of gauze. I
carry my supplies through to the bathroom and lock them in the steel box I had to buy after
the night I was late getting home and she tried to stitch herself.
After the box is locked and put away, I find the carpet
cleaner and a garbage bag under the sink. I follow her trail of dried footprints and soaked
washrags from the bathroom to the bedroom floor. Every few steps, I pick up
another bloody rag, stuff it in the bag, and spray the puddles already
threatening to stain. I throw out the soiled rags and towels with the razor blade
I find under the soap dispenser on the bathroom sink. As the first hints of sun
filter through the curtains, I scrub each drip from the carpet until
the soapsuds turn to white from pink.
When she wakes, she won't remember any of this. She
never does. She will smile and laugh, only questioning me when she feels the sharp bite of the
surgical tape on her arms as she tries to pull me into bed. She will
stop, then, her eyes wild. She will stare at me until I nod and look
away, and she won't meet my gaze again until the stitches have come
out. Then, she will smile and laugh, and we will make love as she
pretends to forget. Afterwards, she will fall asleep curled into my
side, and I will lie awake trying to guess the number of moments we
will have like this, counting the days left before the bleeding begins
again.
This piece of micro-fiction appeared in Notations literary magazine, Murray State
University, 2004.
