The Politician
Flash Fiction Story
by Elizabeth Mercurio
They
were outside his window again, the protestors. Damn the cops, couldn’t they
keep those people away with their rainbow flags. Luckily his wife Cindy and the
kids were away visiting his in-laws. He was tense and wondered how he’d sleep.
He had an important golf game tomorrow with the same donor who’d given him a
check for $10 million. He’d been so stunned by the amount he’d clutched the
check the whole flight home. He’d need his rest, but he was still thinking of
his teenage daughter, Rhian. He’d disliked the name, but his wife had insisted
on naming the baby girl after her great-grandmother a strange old lady he’d
only met once. She’d held Rhian shortly before she passed away at the old
folk’s home. The old woman had smiled and stroked the baby’s cheek. The next
day she’d died.
He
and Rhian had a blowout fight before they left. His wife had found letters
Rhian had written to a classmate, another girl, love letters. How could his own
daughter be gay? Hadn’t they taken her to church before she could walk, told
her the story of Adam and Eve before she could read. What would his
constituents say? His powerful friends? Donors? He knew he was reactive. Rhian
had cried and left for her grandparent’s house with the shadow of his red
handprint on her face. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but this could ruin him.
He
went downstairs to pour himself a drink to help him sleep. The bourbon warmed his
chest, and he began to feel drowsy. Their Doberman Molly tried to jump on the
sofa next to him. He wacked her hard across the snout. She whimpered and slunk
away to her bed in the corner. Molly, what a ridiculous name. He’d wanted to
name her something more imposing. He hadn’t even wanted a female dog. He’d
gotten the animal to look vicious and protect his family and home, a watch dog.
Once again, he’d been overruled when his young son had insisted, they call her
Molly. Molly might look ferocious, but with the children doting on her she’d
become as docile as an old housecat.
It was midnight now; he’d better get
some shut eye. He felt he must check his daughter’s room one last time, make
sure all the letters were destroyed. He started in the special box she kept in
her closet. Over the years she’d kept things there, things that were important
to her. As a child it held her favourite doll or stuffed animal. This is where
his wife had found the love letters wrapped with a silk ribbon lying under a
favourite sweater knit by her grandmother. When his wife showed him the letters
he didn’t hesitate. He burned them all.
Then he saw something, a black
smooth stone set in a beautiful antique amulet of shining silver. He hadn’t
seen it in years. His wife’s great grandmother Rhian had bequeathed it to his
daughter in her will calling it the heartstone. It had come in an envelope with
dried flowers and a note written in Welsh it said: Ag yn Nawdd, Pwyll; Ag ymhwyll, Goleuni;
Ag
yngoleuni, Gwirionedd; Ag yngwirionedd, Cyfiawnder; Ag ynghyfiawnder, Cariad. Below this in English was
scrawled: And in protection, reason;
And in reason, light; And in light, truth; And in truth, justice; And in
justice, love.
Not knowing why, he felt compelled
to further inspect the amulet in brighter light and brought it to his bedroom. He
held it under the bedside lamp. On the back there were small markings engraved
in the silver. Markings he’d never seen that almost seemed a hieroglyphic of
sorts. He heard a surge of wind and looked out the window. The protestors were
gone. They’d likely be back tomorrow. They were mostly angry at his harsh
policies towards the LGBTQ community, but he knew he must hold the line and keep
his base constituents happy.
He set the necklace down, shut off
the light, and tried to sleep. In his restless sleep he sees visions of himself
being chased by a gaunt, bony old hag. As she grabs his shoulders from behind
he is astounded by her strength. Her black nails close over his shoulders, her
blue-violet hands hold tight, and she bites him on the back of his neck with
jagged fangs. He awakens screaming, but no sound escapes his mouth. He is awake
but cannot move. It’s as if he is paralyzed. After what could be minutes or
hours, he is able to move his limbs again, but he feels weak and full of dread.
He walks down to the kitchen to get
a glass of water and checks the microwave clock. How can it only be 1:30 am? Molly
is sitting by the kitchen door probably waiting for his son’s return. He
suddenly longs for her sweetness and warmth. He goes to pet her, but Molly hasn’t
forgotten his earlier treatment and trots away up the stairs to sleep in his
son’s room. Alone he shakily gets his water. His throat is so dry the water
hurts going down. He smoothes his hair back and that’s when he feels it, a
wound, a bitemark at the base of his neck.
His climbs back into bed thinking
perhaps the bites must be from an insect in the house, there was no other
logical explanation. Though the pillow is soft his mind is crippled with
anxiety fearing the return of the red eyed hag. He drifts off then suddenly feels
himself gasping for air. The woman is back. She straddles him her hands around
his throat choking him. At that moment beyond the woman’s horrible visage, he
recognizes the face from long ago, the face of a great grandmother, the woman
that had once held his baby girl so tenderly. As his face became blue, he chokes
out the last word he will ever say: “Rhian?”
Elizabeth Mercurio is the author of the books Doll and Words in a Night Jar. She is an Assistant Editor at Lily Poetry Review. She earned an MFA in poetry from The Solstice Low-Residency Program. Her work has appeared in Ample Remains, The Wild Word, Thimble Magazine, Vox Populi, and elsewhere. She was the 2016 recipient of The Sharon Olds Fellowship for Poetry and was named a finalist in the Cordella Press Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize. You can find her at: https://www.elizabethmercurio.com/
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