Flash Fiction: Echoes Of The Past
I’ve been writing 10 minute flash fiction piece’s via the prompts Tori one of the members on HitRecord.org posts up each week and figured I might as well start posting these up as I go along. Mind you, I’m not sure how good these are, but the writing prompts gets the creativity flowing and it’s pretty cool to see what I come up with every time.
I wrote this back on 9th of August. The prompt for this was one was Home. I do think this has room for expansion and just might work on it more some day. We’ll see, though.
Enjoy!
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There’s a place I used to go to. The one place I always felt safe. The one place where nothing else mattered. Where love and contentment reigned supreme. Where Mom and Dad lived in total harmony, giving Jake and I the best they ever could. Until the accident took it all away.
The doctors tell me it’s my fault that they’re gone. That I caused the bridge to collapse that day. Frankly, I don’t remember much about it, but it does come back in pieces.
What I do remember is sitting in the back seat of Mom’s station wagon, arguing with Jake about the fact that he broke my favorite Barbie doll. I can still hear Dad’s voice as he yelled across his shoulder to tell us to be quiet. A lot of good that did!
I remember my brother swatting his hand across my face and the blood that started pouring from my nose. I’d yelled and yelled, tugging on his raven curls in hopes of inflicting as much pain upon him as he’d inflicted on me. After that, everything else is a blur.
They say I’ve got to stay here. That they mean to cure me of whatever is wrong with me. I keep telling them they’re crazy. That I’m perfectly fine. Unfortunately, my words fall on deaf ears.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this place. Doctor Schultz says this will be my home forever. I fail to agree.
I got out of here before. I can do it again. Chances are they’ll bring me back again, but it’s worth it to try and make my escape, right?
Home . . .
God, how I miss it. The ache to be inside my room cuts deep, making me remember things I’d rather leave buried. The memories, these white walls, and those black bars on the windows – they can’t contain me for long. It’s just a matter of time.
I’m coming home, Mom. Wait for me!
