Oblivion
A Microfiction
My dad said the neighbour was trying to kill him, but Ms. Porter didn’t look the type.
She shambled to the mailbox, rail-thin in her blue housecoat. The stench of cigarettes a cloud drifting from her lips. If she saw him watching from the shelter of our droopy-roofed porch, her hand would dart from its sleeve to wave hello. A move, that made dad flinch and scuttle back inside. She carried the air of a former bombshell on her hips and thought his eccentric acts flirting.
I knew different.
He rigged the house with trip wires. Not deadly, just aggravating when you sent a collection of pots clattering to the floor. I knew it was some form of psychosis, but I didn’t tell anyone. He taught me to be afraid of the system. So I stayed out. Smoked too much, drank without abandon. Fight crazy with crazier.
Ms. Porter didn’t kill him.
I found his note before I found him. A scrawl, broken and screeching about eyes and terrycloth witches. Between the lines, traces of neglect and my ignorance. She was in her driveway when they carried him out. Sharp eyes that still haunt my dreams. Sometimes, when I wake, I think that Ms. Porter is trying to kill me.
So much good fiction hiding on Medium. Here is a recent favourite;
