Dissolve

Flash
Gaynor Jones


Photo Credit: Elné/Flickr (CC-by)

We sit in quiet lilac rooms on plastic chairs. Paper on the table, posters on the walls. They already know the who, the where, the when and it’s enough for their notes. But they’re desperate for the why.

First sip, first toke, first hand fumbling into your jeans. Excitement, that’s all. They’ve either never had it or they’ve forgotten.

On weekends I go from couch to couch, maybe room to room. They put things in my mouth then put the thing in my mouth, and it dissolves and I dissolve with it. Life melts into colours, like dancing inside a rainbow.

Later, as it wears off, I hang out the window in the room above the chippy where they store us, half laughing, half crying. ‘Help,’ I call out, needing to be saved from myself.

Then it’s meeting after meeting after meeting.

For some it’s just their job; they’re paid to care about me. Others really do care and they are the worst. Their vacant mouths wait for me to speak so I say what they want, nod along with them. Sometimes they get through and I pick at the dry flakes on my skin, spilling out promises I half intend on keeping. But then I remember the colours.

And the next Friday night, I escape, find them and dissolve all over again.

pencil

Gaynor Jones is a freelance writer from Manchester, UK. She writes micro, flash and short stories and organises the Story For Daniel flash fiction competition. Her work can be read in Ellipsis Zine, Flash Frontier, MoonPark Review and The Airgonaut, among others. She tweets at @jonzeywriter. Email: gaynor[at]jonzey.com