Disclaimer: Mature rating for language and content.
She had a smart mouth. That’s what he always told her. In the odd-shaped walk-in closet, she stood with her back to the opened door. In an instant beyond her intuition, his meaty fingers were around her throat. She was turned and pushed to the ground – in one fluid motion. She was too aware of the broken guitar lying between her and the closet floor.
With her eyes closed, she heard him say, “You think you’re gonna disrespect me, bitch? Do you know who the fuck I am?” He spat the words at her. Spittle settled on her face. Had she known, she would have wiped it away. There were some things she just couldn’t tolerate.
She could feel the dryness of his hand from the palm to each digging tip. She could feel the distinct droplets of sweat forming a shackle around her neck. The dryness, the sweat – living in the same space at the same time, yet so very separate.
Suddenly, she felt a slack in his grip. One gasp for air ran away before she realized he was only shifting for a better hold. The comprehension sank so deep her eyes slammed open. Finally looking into his eyes, she could see they didn’t look different at all. She wished they did. But his eyes were calm, at ease, steady. For him, there was no passion, only intention. For her, there was no panic, only resignation.
Nothing flashed before her eyes. No images of happy times or of sad times. No hope of times to come or longing for times now gone. She might like to wonder why, but she can’t. Nothing but the moment exists.
And then he was gone and she was alone – and alive with the broken guitar still making its presence known against her back.
She picked herself up, walked quietly into the kitchen, and made dinner.
His grip on her throat never as tight as the one he had on her mind.
It is my understanding that a micro-story is meant to convey a story in as few words as possible still making the reader feel something. I hope I made you feel.