Splinters (fiction) - Imme Visser
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Splinters (fiction)

We had asked each other. What would you do, we said. When the time comes. Some talked about outrageous things; jumping out of a plane, doing a shot of heroin. Most were taken with this idea of drugs. Then there were the more sensitive ones. Me. Ally. Logan. We wouldn’t do anything other than be with each other, we said. Blankets, pillows, wine.

It’s not blankets, pillows, wine. There is a silence that penetrates belief. They are all in the room together but they are not. I don’t know how to look at the others. I don’t want to see their faces. The light flickers and goes off. There’s no time because time does not exist. The names are not names. The faces are not faces. Blank numbness holds the room. They are grey.

Isaac sighs. He sits next to me. Today Isaac is wise like he never was before. I cling to him like I should cling to my husband. It does not matter. They all cling to him. All. It’s because he has least hope and he has accepted this a long time ago. The sirens start. The blinds flutter.

This is the third time. Or the fourth. I don’t know. There is five of them left. They once called themselves a family. They are individuals now. Bodies slumping against the ragged couch. They try to hold Isaacs hand like he is their God. He slaps them away. The sirens grow louder. The faces grey.

Glass splinters burst into the room. The windows. They push each other to get under the couch. They claw. Pull. Bite. Isaac’s blood under my fingernails.



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