Flight by Elle Michael River

Eyes snap open, stirred by a silent alarm.

She peels stiff covers from her frigid skin, chilled by a thermostat set to 64 degrees, even in winter. Gray-socked feet hit the stained carpet, and she wiggles her toes. They’re painted a forbidden red.

Crack! Her trick knee gives out. She reaches, but there’s nothing to catch her. Her palms smash into the rug, and unmedicated pain ripples through her bones. A collection of prescriptions waits on the nightstand. Take nothing! Her outstretched hand drops back to the floor, and she stands one creaking joint at a time. She shuffles past an empty water bowl, chased by an indifferent snore.

Dear Lord, don’t look back!

Dishes fester in the sink, and corner-kicked glass — from last night or before? — glints in the moonlight. A cold coffee pot calls from the counter. She didn’t set it, and that will be his first clue. Two creams, no sugar, piping hot! But not today.

The cream is spoiled anyway.

Plastic couches hold their breath, but a lazy purr escapes from the nearest corduroy throw pillow. Don’t look. Take nothing. Don’t look!

She turns. Staged picture frames slap shadows across faded floral wallpaper. It’s not yet morning, but she knows each makeshift memory by heart. Better to leave the lights off lest decades of frozen smiles make her stay. It’s only sixteen steps back to the bedroom.

Someone stirs. Her hands fly to her face, and she swallows a scream, so does her obedient reflection. Frail fingers frame her crinkled face, caress her sunken cheeks, and brush a tucked-in chin. The baby blues of a girl who stole her mother’s makeup brushes and drew golden landscapes across her bedroom walls beg for her bravery, just this once. She blinks.

Her mother’s antique mirror, a future casualty—but how could she carry it? —must stay. Take nothing! She tiptoes to the front door. Her weathered flats rest next to steel-toed boots. They’re both stained. Two fur-covered coats dangle from the rack, and she almost lifts her hand. Almost! But won’t she need a jacket? Her daughter gave her the maroon peacoat for her birthday. She’s never worn it, not even once, but she takes nothing.

Except.

Waning moonlight whispers a warning, but she locks the door with her empty left hand and drops her shoulders. It’s warmer outside, and a feathery wind tickles her ankles. She spits a short, peppered hair from her mouth and hurries down the sidewalk, avoiding the overgrown cracks. Six modular houses sleep on this aging street, unaware of her escape. Is this blustery, mailbox-goodbye good enough for four decades of neighborly smiles?

A double-parked Toyota sputters and flashes its lights. She hurries to the open passenger door and collapses inside. The car takes off, and she doesn’t look back. Not once.

Ten molasses minutes.

‘Ma, ya had to bring the cat?’

She strokes the gray and white fur, and peaceful purring fills the car.

‘He doesn’t know how to feed her.’

Elle Michael River writes curious fiction about weird, messy people, and performs heart surgery on manuscripts missing their soul. When Elle’s not writing, you can find her onstage pretending she’s someone else or discovering dragons with her family in their Northeast home. Elle attends Southern New Hampshire University for her MFA in Creative Writing. She has her BA in English from Thomas Edison State University. Find Elle at @emichaelriver and ellemichaelriver.com.