[I wrote this for a flash fiction competition. It didn't win. but I like it anyway x]
Jason trembles as he turns the key, and I smirk. The door opens. I follow him in. He stumbles, and I laugh. His floundering fingers fumble for the switch. Light makes everything clear.
I follow him around the shop. It’s pristine: the stained floor re-tiled and the dirty walls scrubbed white. He washes his hands. I stare. I’d never known a man’s hands, never imagined they could be so: soft and warm on my skin. The pain had been nothing to have him touch me.
He turns on the radio. I de-tune it. He sets out his instruments. I jostle them. I want to pick them up and hurl them around the room, but I haven’t the strength: not yet.
I wanted to throw things at my funeral too. I heard the sniggers. “Blood poisoning? From a tattoo? At her age?”
Jason thinks he is sorry. He will be.