We could have been heroes? by Mark McConville

Flash Fiction, Mark McConville, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories

Our souls are heavier than sound, heavier than heaven, and we know now that we’re blotches on the skin of life. This road we walk upon leads to the cracks of suburbia, the domain where hope fizzles out and where men and woman fight to stay alive. In my pocket I have two coins, in yours you have lipstick. A pen to write rage on bathroom stalls, an object to cover up your split lips. These coins couldn’t get us a place to stay. We ran, carrying only ourselves. No remedies to nullify the pain in our hearts, no essentials. The clothes we have are on our backs.

Our eyes have seen many wars. The scars are medals. Through your own eyes you’ve seen worse. Your baby taken from you, your life thrown into turmoil. You can still hear the cries, those deafening bellows for your affection. A child terrified and stuck in a place only the devil would appreciate. A sanctum, lacking fresh air and the warmth from a womb.

Scared, we’re scared, you’re tears fall like droplets of rain, and my hands shake unrelentingly as I try to keep myself from cascading. You try to talk, I only hear fragments of your broken voice, you scream, I can only see your disgruntled expressions. I say that we must escape the doubt before we can think optimistically.

Negativity has brushed against our resolve for years. Before this distress, we lived in a sunken apartment, living day to day, crashing into bottles of wine and rubbing skin with creatures of the night. Those people are to blame, their trust obsolete. They want money from us, but we’re broke, so broke, that I had to sell my late mother’s jewelry.

The day I handed over those rings and necklaces, was a day where my heart should have caved in. I had to sell them, I had to deliver money to the darkness. I wished for an SOS, I craved a bed, to rest my weighty head. There’s no bed, there’s no home. Only a road, a long, straight road. We’ll be dead in a day.

The money has dried up like the road we walk on. I have nothing to give, not a single dime, not a single word. You seem tired. Tired enough to breakdown, your engine crashing. The blood in you, coursing through veins which crave alcohol. We’re dependent on wine, cheaper the better, and as we find ourselves walking through the harsh-lands, the desire, the need, only strengthens.

Night is near. The thick darkness will only bring pain. A light in the distance flickers. In the distance there seems to be another beating heart?

Mark McConville