Flash Fiction Day #3

Flash Fiction Day, June 22, 2016

Inspired by… fucked up relationships.

Scapegoats – Bad Approach

You’re right. It’s my fault.

It’s my fault that you’re there and I’m here. 

Got it right for once.

Cuz it wasn’t my fault you snorted that shit on Friday. Wasn’t my fault your job was drug testing on Monday. Wasn’t my fault you were fired by Wednesday.

And it definitely wasn’t my fault that you couldn’t get work by Friday -three months later.

By four months, I was… over it. Sick of you sitting on your ass, demanding dinner after I got off back-to-back shifts at the hospital from last night till 8pm today. Got back to dirty dishes everywhere, cigarette butts still smoking on the carpet, and beer bottles throughout the house. Coming home dead tired to finish another shift of taking care of your sorry ass for another five hours.

Cook dinner.

Set the table.

Dodge the plates and utensils you’d throw at me.

Pray you wouldn’t hit me again. But you did anyway.

Clean up the broken dishes, the food splattered floor, the crusted utensils. Clasp my hands together to stop the shaking. Drag myself to the bathroom and avoid the mirror.


Sew myself back together. Take a tepid shower. Crawl into bed.

Shudder when you’d step through the doorway. Wait for you to finish once you’d collapsed into bed.

I’d stopped fighting you off 11 weeks ago. I knew better now.

Silently wait till you’d fall asleep. I’d stopped crying myself to sleep nine weeks ago.

Wake up three hours later to do it all again.

I’d head out the door, to the echos of you screaming how it was my fault.

My fault you’d run out of cigarettes. That life was shit and you didn’t receive what you were entitled to. That that cunt on channel nine wouldn’t flash her boobs.

My fault. My fault?

Well, it’s your fault now.

If you hadn’t kept blaming me for shit, I would have never thought of how things would be without you. I wouldn’t have remembered how lax our hospital was when it came to hypodermic needles and paraphernalia.

If it weren’t for all the bones you’d broken, I wouldn’t have had such a large stash of pain pills in my satchel. If it weren’t for the black eyes staring at me in the mirror, I would have thought twice about what I wanted to do.

Maybe if you’d treated me like a human instead of a punching bag, I wouldn’t have spiked your beer and crushed Oxy into your food.

Maybe, I wouldn’t have shot drain cleaner into your veins.

And, just maybe, I wouldn’t be lighting this house on fire.

In the end, it’s my fault you’re dead. But everything else?

Everything else is on YOU!




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