Forgotten

Because amnesia is so much fun to play with, here's a little snippet for you where a young man isn't terribly brave about hurting a pretty girl's feelings. :) Enjoy. 

***

As darkness slowly gave way to soft lamplight, several things became apparent. First and most obviously, his head hurt. It buzzed and throbbed like someone had stuffed a nest of angry bees between his ears. Slowly, other things floated to the surface of his awareness. The thing he was lying on was soft and warm and dry. The ceiling above him was wood, not rock. The shape beside him was a person in a chair.

He blinked. The person in the chair was female, and watching him intently. She perched on the very edge of her seat, and though she was very still, something in her posture reminded him of a small dog, straining toward something it wanted very badly. He started to push himself up, prompted by an impression that it was rude to leave her waiting.

Suicide Note

Apparently, my work friend really likes writing prompts that are just a little bit morbid. So, here's another one she sent me not too long ago:

You find your own suicide note.

It is unmistakably in your own handwriting,

it is stained with what can only be blood,

and it is dated 3 days ago.

Then she had the audacity to write something based on her own prompt - and then I couldn't help myself. The story just sort of came into being without my permission. Here it is... well, part of it anyway:

---

“Hold on, I had it right here.”

“Sure.”

“Seriously.”

“You know, if you’d organize your - “

“It’s an organized mess, thank you very much.”

Papers started spilling off the desk onto the cluttered floor. Cleaning up was futile. Marie knew. She’d tried. It only took about a day or so before, once again, the place looked like it had been bombed. Or invaded by toddlers.

“Are you absolutely sure you had it here?”

“I swear it was here . . . I guess I could check the living room.” She dropped the stack of papers carelessly onto the desk and darted out the door into the hall.