No Such Thing As Can't

Flash Fiction - A First Draft

Ripped paper. Crumpled paper. Each slice of white just further proof that I cannot do this.

Mamma told me not to say that. To say can’t. Cannae. Will not, cannot. She would grab my wrist and twist, so that the skin turned red beneath her hands, and flick her tongue like a snake as she repeated, ‘No such thing as can’t’, as I would scramble and try to wrench my arm free, but she was stronger than me, then.

She’s sixty now. Few days ago, in fact. According to her, she hobbles. I can picture her slab-worn dc Martens, the one’s bought on discount, hanging above the oversized pebbles she decorated the back yard with, looking for a safe space to plant her Nazi-beating sole. Soul?

Seoul looks like a lovely place to go. It’s far from here. Does Anime come from Seoul? Dunno, but suicide does. Only Greenland has more. K-Pop, too.

Another slice of white drifts into the waste paper basket. Different to the others. That one is carrying a maroon stain.

My Grandfather once called my mother a stain. The table had been laden with crackers, onion gravy, horseradish in a china boat, our brews half meshed by primary colour crepe. She’d made a cock joke. Rather, she’d lain down a challenge, for the men to whip ‘em out and dash ‘em on the table top.

Grandpapa had pushed himself up said what he said and then he was gone and Mums stood there hyperventilating and telling old Rose that she had to leave cos she couldn’t stay and no one grabbed her wrist and yanked her skin.

Daddy did nothing. I can still picture him forking another flap of beef into his mouth, can still see the furl of the brown as it pushed against his lips and the gravy dripped in dollops to his plate.

I’ve decided to write around the red. Like, paper is born white, all innocent and pure, so it’s best to muck it up. Make it my own. Tell my own story.

Mum tells stories with exaggerated pauses. Whether that’s for performance, or due to slower processing, I ain’t too sure. She will start, ‘And you’ll never guess what Sue did yesterday…. You know Sue, you do, you do! Well… I talk about her all the time… Remember I told you about her the other week… About her husband catching chlamydia in Thailand…. And… Well if you won’t even look at me as I talk to you then I can’t continue.’

The blood’s pouring pretty swift now, and the nib of the fountain pen is fucked. Girlfriend bought me a Montblanc, but there’s a little bit of skin caught between the bits at the end, so whenever I try to drag it ‘cross the paper it stutters.

I used to sound like a baby’s machine gun, peppering p’s all over the place. That was my stutter. Was told to face fears at the school nativity. I got Joseph, a playground crush on Mary, and a pale blue tea towel round my head. I was scared, obviously. Told her that I couldn’t do it and oof there it was. A choreographed bash, twist, and dash. Wrist skin stretched and nose to the boards of the assembly hall. White lies made Mum’s curls bounce. As she told Miss Pebbody I had tipped, she looked like a biblical bush in a sandstorm.

I’m not so agitated anymore. That’s one good thing. The paper is cool to my cheek and, honestly, I can’t remember what had got me so worked up. Just wish it wasn’t so sticky. Can’t keep my eyes open, so I’ll close them for a bit. Rest a little. Can’t work when tired. Later, I’ll write this letter to Mum.