Tuesday, 22 May 2012

Flash Fiction Friday - Mind Your Head

It's been months since I wrote anything, but I was determined to get back on the horse, so to speak. So here, for this week's Flash Fiction Friday, is a story that includes the words Frenetic, Hobbit and Cummerbund.

Mind Your Head

He didn’t care if Bilbo Baggins from The Hobbit had worn one, he wasn’t going to wear the pissing thing. Adds a bit of class, she’d said, makes you look like somebody. Well she could fuck off, he was somebody and if he didn’t want a cravat, he wasn’t going to wear it. And, why the fuck would a fictional character wearing one be an incentive for him to wear the poncing thing?
“You nearly ready, dear?” she called up the stairs.
“No need to snap.”
“I wasn’t snapping.” He paused, looked in the mirror. He was snapping, his face was red. Red mist rising, that’s what he called it. Back again from the depths of nowhere, ready to take him to that place. So dark that place; hellish, frenetic, scary. Scary was the worst part: the ideas it gave him, the things it wanted him to do.
“Your cummerbund’s down here if you’re looking for it.”
He looked at the mirror, saw his burning eyes. Ten deep breaths, that’s what he needed. Calm the heart, lower the blood pressure. Calmness breaking, he shook his head. Surely everyone felt like this at times? The great unspoken state. He knew there was red mist in everyone. Most just hid it better than himself. Everyone had the potential though. Everyone.

Downstairs, cummerbund and cravat didn’t feel too bad. He looked stupid though. Like some nonce or theatre goer, but it was just for one day. Helen looked great. Blue dress, just above the knee, showing off those great knee caps. The large hat obscured her carefully prepared hair. Smiling at him, she lay her head on her right shoulder.
“Doesn’t look so bad. You never know, you might actually enjoy today.”
He turned away. Ten more breaths as he picked up his keys and suit jacket. She really didn’t help sometimes. Maybe she was in on it. They all were. Everyone was in on it. It was wind up Derek week and she was the fucking cheerleader.
Ten more breaths as he walked to the kitchen. Glass of water, a look out at the garden. Neat rows of flowers and veg. Calming that’s what it was, all that effort to raise and grow flowers from tiny seeds. All that effort. Yet that voice, the one in his head. It told him to smash the trellis, rip the heads off the flowers, pour weedkiller on the tomato plants. He clenched his fists. Clenching was the only thing sometimes. The only thing that stopped him.
A few more deep breaths and he walked back to the living room. “We ready then?” he asked.

She said the service had gone well, but he wasn’t so sure. The groom messed up his lines and the page boy cried throughout. If that was well, what would a disaster be like? Onto the reception after ten thousand photos were taken. Sat at a table with her relatives. Polite conversation. Hands under the table, clenched. Small talk, he’d  never been any good at it. How’s work, golf, the garden, they’d always say. Always scout round the big questions. How’s your head? Where’s your mind at today? How many times in the last week have you thought of killing someone? Really, only two? Oh you are improving. Why I thought of killing three myself and I’m not messed up in any way.
“You okay?” she whispered.
He turned, looked at her. Her eyes read concern and hidden tears. She mouthed the words, we can go outside? Get some air?
He shook his head. This was her day. Her cousin’s day to be precise. It wasn’t about him. Two deep breaths as the waiter came over, started laying cutlery.
“You play golf, Derek?” asked someone. Her uncle Rob, that’s who he thought he was. Something big in insurance in the Home Counties.
He shook his head. “Never really tried.”
“We should have a round sometime. All of us. No better way to spend a Sunday morning.”
The pompous laugh at his own unfunny joke. It wasn’t even a joke just small talk. He looked down at the table. Waiter had just place two knives, two forks and a spoon. One was a steak knife. Very sharp. The voice in his head - How many can you take? There’s fifty people in this room? How many can you kill before someone stops you? Bet you can do them all? Go on....
How many could he kill? He clenched his fists and stood up. He hoped he’d make it outside without finding out.


Sue H said...

This held my attention all the way - and a cracking ending! Very well done, sir!

SueH I refuse to go quietly!

Twitter - @Librarymaid

Jaxbee said...

Gripping, right up to the end. Guess it will be plastic knives and forks at weddings in future then??

Charlie Wade said...

Thanks Sue. I'll take a look at your entry.

Charlie Wade said...

Thanks for reading, Jax.

Plastic may be the way in the future. Saves on washing up too...

Thomas Pluck said...

Ah, the red mist. Perfectly capturing the tightrope we walk when we have a bad temper.

Charlie Wade said...

Thanks Thomas. Worryingly, this was quite easy to write!

Anonymous said...

Wooo - scary guy. Not sure whether I'm rooting for him to make it outside, or just run amok!

Charlie Wade said...

Tahnsk for popping by, Ravens. I'll take a look at your entry.

Beach Bum said...

Frankly the last wedding I attended, my bother-in-law's, similar thoughts rattled around in my head. Luckily they had an open bar. Great story!

Joyce said...

Terrific story. Are these the thoughts of a closet serial killer or those of a man pushed to the edge simply by his life's events? I do believe the latter would frighten me more. It would appear with this fella, it's only a matter of time. Now I'm going to be on the lookout for anyone who clenches... Brava!

Charlie Wade said...

BB, thanks. A good bar always helps take the mind off things. A free bar, even better.

Charlie Wade said...

Thanks Joyce. It's worth counting the deep breaths as well as looking out for clenches.

Glenn Ricafrente said...

Nice story!

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