Flash 4x in Creative Writing

Goal was 500 words. Didn't happen. Clocked in at 991. Short stuff is difficult for me.

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She tried to pretend that it sounded like the ocean – this roaring in her ears. Tried to think about holding shells up to hear ears as a child, sunshine and happy thoughts. It didn’t work. She couldn’t ignore the sound of the blood rushing in her head. Couldn’t pretend it was happy things like seashells. The porcelain creaked ever so slightly under her weight and she held her breath. Waiting to hear if anyone had heard. But she couldn’t tell anything over the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. It had felt like an eternity since she’d last heard any noise. The screams had died down, and at first she found the quiet even more frightening. Her calf seized in a knot of fire as it protested her crouched position in the stall, but she dared not whimper or try to stretch it.

Please. Please. She begged her body to give her a break. The breath she’d been holding came out faster than she’d intended as her lungs ached for air. Too much noise. She was tempted to hold it again, but knew she’d just end up panting afterward. It was distracting – trying to focus on everything at once. Trying to hear, trying to be absolutely silent, trying to breathe, trying to ignore the fire demanding her attention in her legs.

As carefully as possible she shifted her weight to the other leg. Flexed her toes as much as she dared. She had tried counting the seconds, but time seemed to have lost its meaning hours ago. Or was it minutes? The screaming had started, rose, added the yelling of police officers and gunshots, and now all was quiet. Had been for a while, yet she was still too afraid to move.

While trying to stretch her leg, the toilet lid shifted and she lost her balance, falling backward into the stall wall. She cursed at herself for the noise and remained perfectly still, body contorted between the toilet and the wall, waiting to see if anyone had heard her. Not breathing, she counted the seconds. 10 of them. Now 20. A slow breath out. Nothing.

She looked down at her bare feet against the cold white tiles. Where had her shoes gone? She pressed her hand against the wall and un-wedged herself from her spot. The bloody handprint she left behind shocked her. Had she cut herself while falling? She didn’t think so. As she checked over herself, she noticed more blood – on her shirt, splatters across what was once a white blouse with pink flowers. The black strap that cut across her chest had to belong to her purse, but it felt unusually heavy. She tried to remember what happened before she climbed into the stall, locked the door, and perched on top of the toilet. Had she been shot? Where was the blood coming from? Everything was fuzzy.

She reached out and left another smear of blood as she slid the stall lock open as silently as possible. The whining sound of squeaking hinges as the door swung open assaulted her ears and she covered them in reflex. Another pause to listen for anyone who might have heard her. The sound of her blood and heartbeat were still the only sounds she heard. Hard to believe this building was normally bustling with hundreds of people every day.

Suddenly there was the sound of a broken door further down the hall. Police yelling. The sound made her jump, and she threw her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. She tried to talk her heart into calming down. It’s the police. They’re looking for survivors. The tile was so cold it was beginning to hurt her feet. Her calf was still aching, although the fire had died down. She had the urge to run through the bathroom door and into the arms of the nearest police officer. But then again, what if the shooter got to her first?

She remained frozen, hand still creating a bloody pattern on the stall door as she stood half inside the stall, half out. She took a few slow breaths as the sound of the officers got closer and louder. Body aching, head buzzing, heart racing, she focused on moving the blocks of ice that had replaced her feet. Closer and closer to the bathroom door as the sounds got louder. Safe. Safe, it became the mantra that propelled her forward. She pushed the bathroom door slowly, so slowly, as not to catch the officers by surprise. The blood on her hand drying to brown as she pushed against the door, and heard the officers outside freeze.

Painfully slowly she made her way through the door and into the hall. Her first sight of the officers kept her from moving again. Weapons drawn, aimed at her. Her brain struggled to process what was happening. These were not the faces of safety she had hoped for. Had she somehow walked out and stepped right in front of the shooter? They were yelling at her but she couldn’t hear anything but her own heart. She felt sure it would stop at any moment, unable to maintain the pace it had been keeping for what felt like hours now. Their mouths moved and she tried desperately to make sense of it all. Too scared to look behind her, or to move at all. The weight of her purse was pressing now on her shoulder, digging in. She grabbed the strap, went to shift it, just a bit, just enough to stop the pain.

The tug on the strap shifted the shotgun strapped to her back and although it released the pain from her shoulder, the pain that replaced it was fierce, and everywhere. Fireworks exploded in a screen of light from the officers in front of her. And then there was the roaring in her ears again, and then there was silence.