TW: domestic abuse.
Knelt by her side, Mamoru replaced the cool towel over Michiko’s forehead. He straightened the pleats in his hakama, then placed his hands in his lap. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Sister?”
Michiko shook her head. “I’d ask you to make me some rice, but I don’t think I’d keep it down.”
He nodded. “For later, then. When you have your appetite.”
Warmth filled his chest. Finally, she was safe. Until last night, he had never seen her in so much distress — had never seen her back muscles so rigid, her stomach so visibly sore that her breaths had become short little bursts, her eyes so wet with tears that they did not even bother to fall from her eyes. They just stayed there, blinding her. He had also never seen the welts and bruises on her neck before, until he held her hair behind her as she threw up.
But finally, she was safe. Safe from the man she called her husband. The man he once called “admirable” and “just.”
But was she safe from carrying his child?
Hey, everybody. Here’s an unusually short flash fiction piece from me. I don’t know why, but I decided to go with my intuition and stop the story here. I liked that the end opened up questions but also kept them closed and contained.
This one was inspired from my own experience throwing up on a few Saturdays ago. I’m fine now, in case you guys are wondering, but man. Throwing up in the middle of the night is not fun. Be mindful of what you eat, guys. Don’t eat spicy foods too fast, or they’ll wreck your esophagus. Also be mindful of expired foods and medicines. And if you do happened to get food poisoning or a bout of vomiting, chamomile, honey, and lemon are your friends. Treat yourselves right!