The Cabin, by Alicia Leclercq


The sky had never been as clear as it was tonight. Each star glistened like a diamond in my wedding band.  The days were hot but the water was frigid, and a soft blanket of fog danced and curled its fingers ever so gently through my hair. This used to be my favorite spot, just a short distance from the cabin.  The kid’s chatter and my husband’s hearty laugh usually echoed through the woods, but not tonight.  It was almost as if the world had disappeared; it’s eerie silence enveloping me.  I could hear muted sounds and a soft rhythmic thud beneath the water as it was filling my ears.  The thuds became stronger, faster, reverberating through my body.  I was so cold.  A gurgled sound of yelling echoed around me.  I tried to look, to move, but I was frozen.  Flickers of light flashed against the water, synced with each thud.  I was suddenly surrounded by light, and the thuds became soft and unsure, and the gurgle of voices stopped.  I could tell it was him, I knew it was him.  He was beside me now, crying.  The voices started again, hurried.  He was gone, pulled away.  I could see the shadow of bodies trying to keep him away from me.  I understood now.

‘Keep him away from me,’ I yell but they don’t pay attention.  He breaks through and touches my face, my body.  I cry out in agony and try to push him away but I can’t.  ‘Get away from me. Get away from me, ’ I scream over and over. I want to hurt him like he hurt me.  Although I am screaming and sobbing, they don’t hear me.  But I hear them.  I hear them analyzing my bruises, my broken bones, and my dead body.

Alicia Leclercq, Opal Flash Fiction Contest Runner-up

Opal July Flash Fiction Contest 3rd Runner-up: Alicia Leclercq

Alicia is a Photographer in Saskatchewan, Canada

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