J ABRAHAM
  • Home
  • Stories
  • Blog

Short story: Flossing

9/22/2017

3 Comments

 
Hello all and welcome back to short story corner. While I don't feel any closer to solving the mystery of short narrative, a few people did tell me they enjoyed the previous one I posted, #OccupyTrump.

I decided to give this another go, posting a story I've been working on over the last few months. This one is called "Flossing." I don't think this one is quite ready for submission, so I welcome any thoughts or criticisms you all might have to round it out.

As always, thanks for reading!  jA_W


​


I open the decrepit bathroom mirror. The remains of a previous life stare back at me. I avoid looking at the floss in its small white box.

She used to make me floss, every night. Said it was good for me. Haven’t touched it since she left. I don’t notice a difference.

My eyes land on other containers. The shaving cream I bought after she moved out. It’s not as good as the stuff she bought me, but I don’t care. Don’t have to anymore. My razor, the dull blade reflecting the glare of the bathroom light.

Long cotton swabs representing how often she would clean the disgusting wax from my ears. Peroxide for my little cuts, and bandages for my others.

My eyes roll to the tweezers. She used to pull the hair right out of my skin. God, how I hated that. God, how I loved it. Even the pain.

Next I see the soap. Delicate, she said, because of my hands. Don’t have to worry about that either.

She left behind what she didn’t want at her new place. Took all the girly stuff. The makeup, her hair ties. All the pills she took for allergies. And the bottles that made her smell nice. I don’t need to smell like a damn thing. I’m a man, after all. Our species was never supposed to smell like roses. Or meant to clean up after ourselves. Don’t even think about that kitchen right now. Focus.

My eyes arrive back at the tiny white box with the writing on the side. If I’m going to do this, if I'm going to affirm that I’m ready to move on, if I’m using this as my first experiment towards that goal, it’s best to get it over with now while I still can. I don’t notice any difference in my teeth. But maybe I’m not looking hard enough.

I pull the little box toward me. A tiny string dangles from the edge. I grab it taut and start on the back. That was always the worst. Where the dentist said the cavity was beginning. That was one  year ago. She told me to just take care of it then. I should have.

Damn, that hurts. More than it did before. Shouldn’t have stopped flossing. Shouldn’t have stopped doing a lot of things.

Moving up, along the right side. This hurts worse. Another cavity? I can’t bare to go back to the dentist. Not after last time. She shouldn’t have taken the kids. I lost control over the narrative of the situation. God knows what she is telling them every day about their absent father. About what a jerk, a loser he is. Doesn’t even floss.

Forget about all that. Keep doing it. You are doing this because you want to, not because it was a routine like all the others that only she could keep you doing. Not because it reminds you of the ways she affected your life. Doing this painful exercise because I want to, not for any other reason.

This part doesn’t hurt so much. What it’s supposed to feel like. Nice, clean feeling. Doesn’t that feel better, she’d say. And I’d say grudging: yes, it does. You were right. You were right about a lot of things.

Enough of those thoughts. Time for the other side. This side hurts even worse at the back. I must be developing more cavities. It’s my diet. She used to make me eat the most disgusting yet healthy crap. Vegetables. Cooked vegetables. Can you imagine anything worse? And this was a nightly occurrence. Said it was good for the kids. What’s good for me?

Now I’m going to have to look for a second job to pay for this place. Or I could just find a cheaper one. Not likely to happen. This is all that remains of our life together. This, and the floss.

We used to have all sorts of routines. Get the mail together. Go for a walk, with the dogs, out in the forest. Sitting up by the fire late at night. I don’t even remember the last time we went to the movies. Not since the kids, obviously. They go see their own stuff now, and we never went back. Routines are only held together by commitment. I’m finding that out through this little exercise. I keep telling myself I’m doing this for my own good, but I know the truth. I’m doing this because she made me do it, and I can’t not do it. I wanted to be made to do it.

Circulating the miniscule string into the lower regions now. It still hurts, not as bad. I should go to the dentist. You’d want me to do that, even after all this.

But you’re not around anymore. Not since that night. You had your suspicions. The lipstick on that envelope from my co-worker. You never had proof. You had all you needed.

Why was I so stupid? I left the envelope in the open knowing you’d find it. You always tried forcing these routines on me because you knew I could be better. Even through my resistance, you knew I wanted better. For myself.

Rounding home and getting to the front teeth now. A piece of the frozen pizza I inhaled earlier comes flinging at the mirror.

It’s time to be done. I can’t believe what came of such a simple act.

I take a lingering glance at the cabinet. You knew I’d want to floss again someday.

I close the creaky mirrored door with a shriek of metal. Gotta get that fixed. The kitchen first.

The gums in between my teeth are on bloody fire. I remember you telling me I had to endure pain before I could learn to understand it. To love it. And the worst pain of all I brought upon you. And me, and the kids. Eternally. You were right to take them. I’m unfit. Can’t even take care of my freaking teeth.

I tear open the cabinet with a fury, grab the floss and shove it in the trash. I can’t be bothered to remember to floss.

Not anymore.
3 Comments
Audrey
9/22/2017 07:21:37 am

I really felt I was there with the character. Good wrestling through the challenge of letting go of the past and making a new future and identity after an earthquake in a relationship. Something very relatable and deep. Thanks for sharing and keep them coming.

Reply
Catherine Dehdashti link
9/22/2017 08:52:32 am

I loved how it spooled out slowly...sort of like the unreliable narrator idea, we learn little things, little surprises, as we go. The character isn't perfect, but we care about him.

Reply
Catherine Dehdashti link
9/22/2017 08:53:26 am

Didn't even realize until after it posted...the "spooling" feeling, a spool of floss. Intentional? Very cool either way.

Reply



Leave a Reply.

    Author

    John Abraham is a published author and freelance journalist who lives in the Twin Cities with his wife Mary and their cat. He is writing a speculative dystopian novel and is seeking representation and a publisher.

    Archives

    April 2025
    March 2025
    February 2025
    November 2024
    October 2024
    September 2024
    July 2024
    May 2024
    March 2024
    December 2023
    September 2023
    June 2023
    April 2023
    March 2023
    February 2023
    January 2023
    October 2022
    September 2022
    August 2022
    June 2022
    May 2022
    April 2022
    March 2022
    February 2022
    May 2021
    March 2021
    February 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    June 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    January 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    August 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    October 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015

    Categories

    All
    2015
    2016
    2017
    2018
    2019
    2020
    2021
    2022
    2023
    2024
    2025
    Advice
    AYOF
    Books
    Comics
    Democracy
    Drama
    Editing
    Election
    Employment
    Experiments
    Film
    How To Write A Book
    Last Man On Campus
    Life
    Media
    Mental Health
    Netflix
    Other
    Poetry
    Politics
    Process
    Publishing
    Reading
    Reading List
    SciFi
    Short Story
    #ShowYourWork
    Sourcing
    Television
    Thanksgiving
    The Writing Life
    Vacation
    Wife
    Workshop
    Writing

    RSS Feed

Proudly powered by Weebly
  • Home
  • Stories
  • Blog