Shay (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
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ds_flashfiction2004-01-19 09:01 pm
shayheyred.livejournal.com) wrote in ds_flashfiction2004-01-19 09:01 pm
Entry tags:
Five Minutes After
About 300 words, unbetaed and written at blinding speed.
FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE PLATFORM
Oh my God! Oh my God!
God!
No, no nononononono—
Oh my God, dead, he's—
What do I—
I have to, I've got to, I've got to—
Oh my God, what do I do? What—
Shut up. Just shut up!
Breathe. Breathe. Come on, breathe.
Again.
Again.
There.
There.
Okay.
Think, I have to, what do I, what should I—
Shut up. Inside. Go. Inside.
Toilet, find the—
Lock it. Lock, lock, lock.
Think, let me think.
Oh, Christ!
Breathe. No, don't you cry, you hear me? You hear me? Don't you fucking cry over him!
God.
But maybe he's not, he's not dead—
Stop it. Forget it. Forget him.
I look—Christ, my face.
Shit, don't I have a lipstick? Where the hell did I lose—oh, okay, good.
Good. Better. Eyeliner? No, damn it. Wait -- Okay, mascara, whatever, that'll do.
There. There. Good. You look good. Breathe.
Kill for a cigarette.
Huh. Don't have one fucking diamond left, and I want a fucking cigarette. Way to go, girl, way to fucking think about the fucking future.
Wait a minute. How much money do I have? Let me look—
Three hundred bucks, almost, okay, okay, good. That could take me to—
Shit, where the hell is this going, anyway?
Doesn't matter, doesn't matter.
Okay. Ready?
You look good.
Breathe.
Open the door.
Go find a seat. Find a seat.
Grandmother type on left, student, two rows up, window seat open on left—
No. Wait--
Single man, 50ish, three rows up on right…Businessman?
No wedding ring.
. . .
"Hello. Mind if I join you?"
. . .
"Well, hello, Charles Meredith. How nice to meet you."
. . .
"Victoria. Victoria…Fraser."
FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE PLATFORM
Oh my God! Oh my God!
God!
No, no nononononono—
Oh my God, dead, he's—
What do I—
I have to, I've got to, I've got to—
Oh my God, what do I do? What—
Shut up. Just shut up!
Breathe. Breathe. Come on, breathe.
Again.
Again.
There.
There.
Okay.
Think, I have to, what do I, what should I—
Shut up. Inside. Go. Inside.
Toilet, find the—
Lock it. Lock, lock, lock.
Think, let me think.
Oh, Christ!
Breathe. No, don't you cry, you hear me? You hear me? Don't you fucking cry over him!
God.
But maybe he's not, he's not dead—
Stop it. Forget it. Forget him.
I look—Christ, my face.
Shit, don't I have a lipstick? Where the hell did I lose—oh, okay, good.
Good. Better. Eyeliner? No, damn it. Wait -- Okay, mascara, whatever, that'll do.
There. There. Good. You look good. Breathe.
Kill for a cigarette.
Huh. Don't have one fucking diamond left, and I want a fucking cigarette. Way to go, girl, way to fucking think about the fucking future.
Wait a minute. How much money do I have? Let me look—
Three hundred bucks, almost, okay, okay, good. That could take me to—
Shit, where the hell is this going, anyway?
Doesn't matter, doesn't matter.
Okay. Ready?
You look good.
Breathe.
Open the door.
Go find a seat. Find a seat.
Grandmother type on left, student, two rows up, window seat open on left—
No. Wait--
Single man, 50ish, three rows up on right…Businessman?
No wedding ring.
. . .
"Hello. Mind if I join you?"
. . .
"Well, hello, Charles Meredith. How nice to meet you."
. . .
"Victoria. Victoria…Fraser."
no subject
(Anonymous) 2004-01-20 11:43 pm (UTC)(link)Melanie Mitchell wrote a story called "The Woman in Seat Thirty-Eight," her take on what happened in the aftermath of the shooting.
Laurie
no subject