No, Really, I’m Fine

100 stories in 100 days

She held her breath as he passed out the drinks.

She’d grown used to surviving on little. A drop or two of affection here and there. No more.

And because she needed little, she got less.

She felt dusty and prickly, and she sat in her corner and resolved to say nothing, show nothing, while he fussed over the pretty ones, talked to them, stroked them.

She sometimes wished she could cut herself open for him, show him the flower inside. But she daren’t, because it was a flower that couldn’t compete with the others. How could it? They would be beautiful for ever, and she would be ugly forever.

They changed their clothes every day, kept up with the fashion, kept themselves fresh and young.

They had bodies so skinny that it brought all the focus to their pretty faces, while her own plump body made her head look tiny.

When he touched her, by mistake, or out of duty, he often recoiled, disgusted, and then she hated herself.

There was a place she remembered, deep inside, where she didn’t feel this way. She felt she would belong there, even. But somehow she’d forgotten how to get there. Or it was no longer there. Or it had never been, and she was imagining it.

When he came to her dark corner, she found herself upset, unbalanced.

“I’m fine,” she said, hating her simpering voice. “Really. I’m fine.”

Don’t make a fuss. Be grateful.

But she could taste it. The first drop of rain in the desert. The joy. The life he held in his hands. Yes, she would give him her flower, and he would give her everything she needed. This was how it happened now.

She opened her arms a little, imperceptibly. Her succulent belly ached, and a little of her juice oozed from her, but he passed her by, headed to the skinny yellow tulips in the vase by the door, and emptied the rest of the watering-can all over them.

Part of the 100 story challenge!