Flash Fiction Magic: January 6th "A Starting Place"

This flash fiction prompt came from Emily Barnett, on Instagram @embarnettauthor. This flash fiction piece is based on true events.

The last box was on its way up to her new apartment on the fourth floor. She'd mistakenly told the movers there were four flights of stairs, not realizing each section of stairs was its own flight. She was too exhausted to care though. She'd made it up and down twice before her body gave up.

The fatigue she felt was not isolated to her muscles. For the past year it had grown, spreading over her entire being - her brain, her body, even her ability to feel - like a blanket of moss, muffling her spirit's ability to observe and participate in the outside world. Sitting there on the mattress in the corner of her new living room, it was all she could do to stay upright.

Not that sleep would come, either. When she closed her eyes his face was there, embossed inside her eyelids. So she kept them open, drooping. She was depleted.

And now she had to make decisions - too many decisions. Her mother wanted to know, did she want her to start unpacking the kitchen boxes? Did she want curtains? What color? Her aunt wanted to know, did she think she would keep the sofa for a month, or keep it for the entire year?

Such small, unimportant things. She didn't care. She told them. "I don't know." A sigh. "I don't care."

There were other decisions weighing on her now. Would they walk the same path to school every day, or wind through the neighborhood to avoid a catastrophic encounter? Could she get a job with the little experience she had, and would it pay enough to cover rent each month?

And other questions, too. Did she have any friends left? Was he going to find them here, in this new house? It suddenly seemed too close to be safe. Her stomach somersaulted with panic. What would he do if he did?

With enormous effort, she pushed aside the thought and reminded herself that he was a coward. He'd been holed up in their home - not home, apartment - since she left. Something she'd cooked the night before was never cleaned up, had grown a mushroom inside of the pot the size of a basketball. There were multiple handles of cheap vodka scattered on the counter. Cardboard taped to the windows. He couldn't leave. He wouldn't now.

Later, after she'd finally succumbed to sleep in the afternoon, after her mother woke her up gently from another nightmare, after she'd promised her parents at least fifteen times that she was fine, she'd be okay, she'd finish unpacking the baby's room tomorrow, after the lock on the door clicked solidly into place and their footsteps became softer, she finally let herself cry.

For hours, she allowed herself to release her sadness, her fear, her regret. While she ran a bath. While she made her tea. While she let her knees sink into the mattress on the floor.

Finally, when she was in bed, blankets pulled up to her chin, she took one great, deep breath, filling her lungs with cool air. She felt the warmth and heard the soft hiss of the radiator, noticed the orange light from the street lamps glowing through the spaces between the blinds. The tears stopped. She breathed evenly and observed the room.

This would be the place where she would start over.

Her safe space.

Her home.