In a small apartment in New York City, Clara stared at the only photo she ever kept of herself. She stared at herself as a little girl of ten, wearing a white dress of silk and lace — smiling only because her father told her to smile behind the camera he held.
That little girl was no more. She drowned in a river, and all they found were soaked clothes.
Nobody would every think to look for Clara in New York. A four by six where the bed met the closet, a heater that couldn’t turn off — The complete opposite of luxury. Yet Clara had to admit that there was some things in her old life she couldn’t let go of: her need for luxury, her need for suitors like Henry the Hotdog Vendor or Lu from Hong Kong Habit.
Jumping in that river and no longer being an heiress was something Clara did not regret.
But it did, at times, make things hard.
How could she think to buy more hot dogs when she needed more wigs? Why was she thinking about wigs when they stopped the search for her years ago?
Decisions, decisions, decisions… All of them so mundane.
But they could wait. They had to. She needed sleep. Her paranoia was keeping her awake. She needed sleep.
She needed dreams.
Hey, everybody! Here’s another flash fiction/micro-fiction piece borne from a three-minute free-writing session I did in April. It’s more on the literary side than the speculative side, but hey. If I want to extend it later, maybe I’ll incorporate some stuff in there.
Anyhow, see you on the next post (next Friday)!