Shortie Short fiction.Mature

The mop is relaxing over the banister, dreadlocks screaming dry. I wanted him to run the hell away from me and sharp objects. My mother approved of his big feet and took him in, after the last fight, with chippings of my pearlized fingernails sunk into his cheeks. I always wanted to be Catholic; with beads and prayers. ‘Hail Grace full of Mary’, face martyred, all eyes and sorrow - forgiven anything in confession. He’ll never leave me now; that body stiffening on my bed. I see him drifting around my head, his face reflected in my gathering tears.


The End

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