The Guest Room: Flash Fiction

Boito-410-double-triggers.jpgMy chin rested against the cold steel as the water from my eyes slowly escaped, rolling slowly down my cheeks and onto my wrists as I held the barrel of the shotgun with a strong but shaky grip. I am unsure now if those tears were from pain or anger; perhaps it was a cocktail of both. I kept reading in my head the teams’ names that decorated the sheets that covered the tiny twin bed – Giants, Cowboys, Lions, Cardinals. The Lions, for some reason, always seemed to stand out. I gazed around the room through the wet veil that covered my eyes at the posters on the walls. Some of them were actually not even posters but full page photos from Athlon’s SEC guide that I had torn out and pinned to the wall. Rick Sanford returning a punt for the Gamecocks was always one of my favorites and it hung right beside my closet. Below that one was Ole Miss quarterback John Forcade running an option. Football was my passion and had been my refuge for so long. It was an escape for me, a sanctuary; I could disappear in that world and forget about the reality of emotional hell that I was living. In reflection, I believe that is what fuels my passion for it today; it helps keep things buried.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s