Tag: Fiction

The shower feels good. I guess I got used to being wet and frozen but the warm water is beginning to remind me of what comfort is. This is also a chance for me to be alone and not have to talk. I don’t know what, or how much, I should say about last night. Rob’s confidence was shaken by the bird but he is obviously thinking of me as the crazy ex-boyfriend. I can hardly blame him for that.

I close my eyes and begin to attempt to clear my mind, just letting the water flow over my face. Finally, I begin to relax and realise how tired I feel. I think I could lie down in the bottom of the bath and take a nap.

My foot slips and that is that, here comes the sleep I was wishing for.

Continue reading “Tracks, a short story: Part 10” →

“Well, that is some coincidence!” says Rob.

He is laughing and smiling, but Leah doesn’t look so happy. She looks creeped out.

“Oh, my God. The poor thing,” she says as she approaches the window.

The bird appears to be stunned but is moving slightly. I am peering over Leah’s shoulder and scanning the sky to see if any of the bird’s friends are nearby. She looks back at me, her face full of concern.

“Was it just a coincidence?” she asks me.

Continue reading “Tracks, a short story: Part 9” →

It seems the imminent threat of physical assault is over. Rob, the rugby player, has calmed down and seems to see me more as a pathetic specimen to be taken pity on rather than any threat. I am not sure which I prefer.

They have taken me into the house and made tea for us all. We are now sitting in the living room and I am attempting to make sense of this whole thing, whilst also attempting not to look like a madman.

Rob isn’t saying much, but Leah is concerned, especially as to how I found out where she lives.

“It’s not like I was trying to hide from you, but we finished and I thought it was best not to stay in touch. I know I hurt you, so I just wanted to move on. So, how did you find me? Have you been following me?”

Continue reading “Tracks, a short story: Part 8” →

Rage, and the power to do something about it. That is how I feel. How could she do this to me? Was it all just about the looks? Did she just want the tall rugby-playing type all along?

“She was always a shallow bitch,” I think to myself.

Continue reading “Tracks, a short story: Part 7” →