This story won Honorable Mention at WOW! Women on Writing Flash Fiction Contest. 

The Oblivion of Charlotte DuMont

April 14

The grief counsellor at St. Mary’s gave me this journal. She said writing helps, but I think she’s an idiot. Writing won’t bring Dad back.

April 20

Mom’s not handling things well. She’s locked herself in her room again. She keeps forgetting he died. Every morning she wakes me up and says, “Charlotte, did you hear your dad leave this morning? I can’t find him anywhere, but his car is here.” Then I have to watch her fresh grief over and over again when I remind her.

I keep thinking about that day. It was just the two of us on the lake, Dad with his fishing pole and me with my book. I stuck my bare feet in the cool water, and he said, “Careful, sweetheart. Those catfish might think your toes are worms.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder, and he pretended to forget who I was. He scooted away, and I laughed so hard and trapped him in a hug while he tried to escape. That’s when he touched his forehead and slumped over. I thought he was joking, and I kept poking him and tickling him. He didn’t move. I didn’t know how fast an aneurysm kills. Maybe it’s not such a bad way to go.

April 21

The funeral was awful. Dad’s coworkers from the law firm came. I’m not sure how well they knew him. They were nice, I guess. One sweaty, fat lawyer in a too-tight suit shook my hand, and then he acted all weird, like he’d just woken up from a coma and didn’t know what year it was. Jerk. The woman who was with him practically yanked his arm off trying to get him to leave.

He wasn’t the only one, either. Even Aunt Vi asked me what I was doing there—like I wasn’t supposed to be at my own dad’s funeral! Seriously? I hate them all.

April 24

It’s been ten days, and Mom is still forgetting Dad died. Sometimes she even forgets where she is or why she came into my room. If I leave her alone, she does better. I know it sounds stupid, but I wonder if I’m the one making her forget.

I can’t believe I just wrote that. That sounds really stupid.

April 26

I went back to school today. Cherise gave me a hug and then stared at the board with her mouth hanging open the rest of third period. Mike Brewster bumped into me in the hallway and then asked me if it was recess time. I told him there is no recess in high school, and he started to cry. Like, literally cried. Then my physics teacher told me I hadn’t turned in the last three assignments. It made me so mad that I just went for it—I touched his hand, and he totally forgot we were even talking and started humming the national anthem.

I’m freaking out. What’s happening to me?

April 27

It’s my fault. I must have killed my dad.

May 17

Mom thought I was crazy when I told her, but when I showed her how the mailman crashed into the neighbor’s garage after I shook his hand, she stopped ignoring me. Later, when I touched our waitress’s arm and she immediately had a seizure, Mom finally believed me. My touch is cursed. I don’t know why this is happening. I don’t know anything.

May 18

Actually, there are three things I know for sure:

1. I can never touch anyone ever again.
2. Mom is scared of me.
3. She should be. I’m scared of myself.

 October 14

It’s been six months since Dad died. I miss him so much my body aches. I can’t do this anymore. A life where you can’t touch anyone is no life at all. Mom, if you find this journal, I’m so sorry. I love you. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. You’ve been a good mom, and this is not your fault. Please forget about me.

*         *         *

November 6

My name is Charlotte DuMont. There’s snow outside my window, and my room is just as white. I’m alone. It’s just me and this journal that some lady slipped through the feeding hole in my door. She talked to me for a minute, said she was a grief counsellor or something like that. She said writing helps. I think she’s an idiot. But maybe I am, too. I can’t remember. 

I stepped ankle deep into the frigid water in the upper pool of the waterfall. Jolts of pain shot up through my knees and hips.

“What’s wrong, Enna? Scared?”

I shot a warning glance at Jake. Ever since Mom had left me with my aunt, he’d been a constant nuisance. For three years, I’d listened to his accusations that it was my fault she’d left. “Stupid, skin-and-bones, stubborn Enna,” he’d call me.

He was right about one thing; I was stubborn — stubborn enough to break his one minute and twenty-one second record of sitting under Merriman Falls. Loser.

“Give it up,” he warned. “You’ll freeze to death.”

I stepped farther into the water, vivid pain racing up over my knees.

“I don’t start timing until you’re all the way under the falls.” He tapped his wristwatch.

I wobbled over mossy stones to the waterfall. Then, holding my breath, I pushed under and let the iciness pound down my back. My mouth opened in a silent scream, and my muscles stiffened.

“Feels good, don’t it?” He laughed.

It felt like the stupidest thing I’d ever done.

He looked at his watch. “Ten seconds.”

I tried to tell my subconscious the water was warm. I’d read about Buddhist monks who raised their body temperature with nothing but thought. It’s a hot bath, I told myself. I’m warm. I’m warm. Ah! I’m freezing!

My breathing calmed, but I whimpered. The pummeling water beat my skin numb. I scrunched into a snug ball.

“Forty seconds!” He grinned at the pain on my face. “Give up, Ugly!”

Couldn’t he see I’d been through enough? Nobody loved me. As much as I hated to admit it, I wished he’d try.

“Fifty! You’re turning blue.”

I can beat him. I smiled. But then what? He’d just hate me more.

I knew a full minute had passed, but he hadn’t called it. His minute twenty-one was his claim to fame. Could I take that away from him? Could I be as cruel to him as he was to me?

My mom once said, “You’re too compassionate, Enna. You’d invite your own murderer for tea.” Two things bothered me about that. First, you can never be too compassionate. Right? Second, I hate tea.

No. I wouldn’t act like him. I slapped the surface of the water and crawled out.

Jake whooped in victory. “Not even close!”

I shook uncontrollably. My arms wouldn’t hold my weight. I fell into the pool face first. I grasped blindly, reaching for the hand he never offered. I pushed up, coughing. “Towel?”

“Get it yourself,” he muttered.

When I finally got to my feet, the look on his face froze me where I stood.

“Accidents happen up here all the time, you know? And let’s face it. Who’d miss you?” I watched his gaze slide down the twenty-foot drop steps away from me.

“Jake? Don’t — ”

He lunged, shoving my chest so hard I fell backward. I gasped and slammed under the water. He dug his knees into my legs and held my shoulders down.

I thought about the strangest things when I looked at his wavy image hovering above the water: Mom’s chocolate chip cookies, the near kiss I had with Tommy Brewer, the algebra test I’d miss the next day. Mostly, I thought about how I might be unloved, but I didn’t deserve to die. Not like this.

I released a bubble of air from my mouth and forced my body to go limp.

Jake let go and jumped back.

I sat up, gulping for air. Surprised, he backed up toward the ledge, nearly tripping. One good shove, and he’d plummet to the jagged boulders below. But then… his chin quivered.

“Enna, I’m… I’m so sorry. I…” He turned, and I knew he’d jump if I didn’t stop him.

“Rematch?” I said in desperation.

He looked over his shoulder with a puzzled expression. “But I — ”

“Not today, obviously.” I squeezed water from my hair. “Help me up.”

Slowly, Jake approached me and reached his hand out. “I don’t know why I–”

“Don’t.” I couldn’t stand his apologies. “I mean, don’t let me die from hypothermia.”

He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me.

“I’ll turn myself in,” he said. “I deserve it.”

I didn’t mean to laugh. “You’re just trying to ditch the rematch.”

He smiled, barely glancing up at my eyes.

“Let’s go,” I said. “We could both use some hot tea.”

Like slightly murdery stories? Read “Caught” next.

This piece placed in the top 10 of the WOW! Women on Writing Flash Fiction contest.

I love writing flash fiction. I love flash fiction contests even more. This particular piece made my mother worry about my sanity. Decide for yourself.

Caught

“You’re not my Mommy!”

My gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror. A few blonde hairs stuck to her wet cheeks as she glared at me with all the defiance she could muster. I looked back to the road, biting the inside of my cheek. She’s only three, I reminded myself, and that parenting book said it’s normal to test boundaries. Healthy, even.

“You’re not my Mommy!” she screamed, louder this time.

I snorted, mumbling about stretch marks and overdue hospital bills proving otherwise. “Everything is fine, sweetie. Please stop screaming so we don’t wreck.”

She slammed her head back against the car seat. “I want home.”

Sand and cacti stretched on forever. I wanted home, too, but we’d never go back. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “You’ll love Mexico. We can learn Spanish, live by the ocean…” But secretly, I worried she’d be doomed to sell candy to tourists. What was I doing? I had no money, no connections, no plan. “We can make sand castles. Have you ever done that?”

She shook her head, and I grinned. I missed her first word and first step, but the first sandcastle? That milestone was mine.

“Will Mommy come?”

“Uh… yes, I’ll be there. Just you and me.”

Her eyebrows furrowed.

I groaned inwardly. “Lindsey, foster mom is not your Mommy.”

She looked out the window, her eyes following each cactus we passed.

“She stole you from me. Do you understand what that means?”

Her frown deepened. “It’s naughty.”

“Very naughty.” I sighed. “But now everything is right again.” I turned to smile at her, but she wouldn’t face me. She rubbed her nose and I noticed her fingernails for the second time today.

The nail polish, of all the stupid things, was the final insult. It’s my job to paint her fingernails, not some judgmental divorcee from Scottsdale. So I took her. Why orange? It’s the color of my old prison uniform. Was it meant as a jab—like mother like daughter?

“I need to potty,” she said.

I hesitated. “Can you hold it? We’re almost—”

“No!”

“Fine. I see a gas station, but you have to be quick.” Foster mom probably hadn’t realized Lindsey never returned to daycare from our scheduled visit. Would she even care? CPS would give her a new charity case within the week.

Still, the blinker ticked like a clock as I pulled into Gus’ Gas.

I carried Lindsey inside. The clerk behind the counter stared at me through thick glasses. “Ten dollars on pump three.”

He ignored the cash I offered.

“Mommy!” Lindsey squealed, bouncing up and down. She pointed to the television. My heart stopped when her foster mom stared back at me from the local news. My picture flashed on the screen next to Lindsey’s. We had the same eyes and hair color, the same dimpled chin and too-big ears.

“It’s Mommy!”

“I thought that was you,” the man said.

Desperation gripped my throat. “Please don’t call the cops.”

“Called them as soon as you pulled in. They’ll be here any minute.”

I slammed my fist on the counter. “I can’t go back to jail! You don’t understand. Please…”

He nodded, looking at Lindsey. “I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll leave the girl with me, safe, I’ll tell them you headed toward Tucson.”

I shook my head. “I can’t leave her.”

He glanced at the television. “You can’t take her to jail, can you?”

He was right, and time was ticking. I set Lindsey on the counter and kissed her forehead. “I’m so sorry, but going back to jail doesn’t do either of us any good. Please forgive me.”

I peeled out of the parking lot, blurry-eyed and frantic to escape. A quarter mile later, I flipped a U-turn, and headed back toward the gas station.

I left the car running and ran inside. “Hello?” I spun around. No clerk, no Lindsey. “Lindsey?” I ran through the aisles. Gone.

I grabbed my head, trying to calm the rising panic, but it was no use. Sirens rang in the distance. I stumbled back toward the counter and tripped, falling backward over an arm.

A scream escaped my lips. A woman, eyes glazed over with a bullet hole in her head, stared back. Blood splattered her Gus’ Gas uniform.

“He didn’t wear a uniform,” I repeated over and over until a policeman yanked me up by my elbow.

I would never be free from my crimes… or from his.