Friday Flash Fiction 33

The starter sentence for Friday Flash Fiction 33 came from the pen of David Barber - it was a short cut that I would regret for the rest of my life.

Short Cut

It was a short cut that I would regret for the rest of my life.

After a hard day in surgery I had been to the gym, then to the wine bar for drinks with the girls. By the end of the evening I knew I couldn't drive.

I phoned James. “Look,” I had said, “I'll be fine walking.”

“Not at this time of night and in this fog – I'll come and get you,” he had suggested.

But I had insisted I would be OK to walk. It wasn't far and I had agreed a promise to take the shortest route home. When he had said he would come and meet me on foot I had become insistent and told him to wait for me at the flat, I wouldn't be long.

The chill of the fog struck me as soon as I stepped outside. It was late and the streets were quiet.

I crossed the market place and took the jitty down to the canal towpath. Away from the street lights the dark closed in. Through the mizzle I could see the glow of meagre lighting ahead where the path went under a road bridge. The only sounds were my footfalls and drips plopping into the canal from the span when it was over me.

In the open again the other side of the bridge I became uncertain. There were steps up to street level on my left. Was this the way to the flat? No, I was sure I had to carry on further then turn left.

As I continued I heard footsteps behind me. There was a moment of panic. The adrenalin rush had a sobering effect but I couldn't stop an overwhelming anxiety. Alone, I suddenly felt threatened and disorientated.

Without thinking my hand reached in the handbag and took hold of a small folding pocket knife. I opened the blade and stopped for a moment. Listening intently, I realised the footsteps were drawing closer. I carried on walking, struggling with my breathing as panic continued to rise. My senses told me the other person was speeding up. I knew I couldn't run in heels.

Then there was the sense of presence. He was right behind me. I swung round, arm stretched out in front. I felt the blade make contact. With a scream the man reeled backwards and crashed on to the path, hands clutching his throat. He writhed briefly, a terrible rattle coming from his mouth. Then he was still.

I stared, gasping. It was hard to make out much in the gloom. I moved closer to the man's head. It was the throat I saw first; the small incision over the external carotid and the swiftly expanding pool of blood. Then I noticed his face.

James. No doubt about it, the sight of the little wound I had inflicted - just a short cut really - was going to haunt me for the remainder of my days.