Under My Skin by Zelda C. Thorne
Love forgave Dad when he drifted into other women’s arms, drained my college fund, and spent it at the bookies. Love swept the shattered bottles and scrubbed the whiskey-soaked carpet. She silenced me throughout the worst years, when the house smelt ceaselessly of vomit and bleach.
By the time Dad deserted, Mum and I were insignificant rubbish strewn in his wake.
Love can’t be trusted.
But when I told this to Jason, he said, “Do you know what debris turns into when it enters Earth’s atmosphere? A shooting star.”
It was a very him thing to say.
It was cruel of me to let Jason hope there’d be a permanent Us. As if I’d taunted a puppy at the shelter with a family, only to snatch it away at the last minute.
His parents are unicorns: still happy after forty years. He doesn’t know how love pierces and burrows and infects. The proof being that he invited me here: You can’t miss this!
It feels like this morning — not three months ago — that I packed my things and found a handwritten list of astrological baby names in his dresser: Aurora, Phoebe, Orion…
As Jason flutters around his telescope, I recall the abject hurt in his eyes when I said, “No,” to his late-grandmother’s diamond ring. Suffused with panic, I fled: marriage and babies equal pain and I don’t want that for either of us. Infuriatingly, he nodded, though tears graced his face: You need more time.
“This is meant to be the most spectacular meteor shower in a generation,” Jason says, giddily adjusting the mirrors and lenses.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as he consults his compass, moonlight bathing him in its ethereal glow. I sit on the grass, lean on my hands, and wince.
“You alright?”
“It’s nothing.”
I inspect my palm. A lingering splinter, deeply-embedded, from when I climbed over the turnstile into this field.
“It hurts,” Jason says, kneeling. “Let me.”
His touch is soft, gentle. He produces a pocket knife and flicks out a miniscule blade. I’m mesmerised by his quiet focus as he pries the splinter out. I barely feel a thing.
In a flash, I see him as a father.
Bringing our little one out here with the kitchen step stool I use to reach the top cupboards, only they will use it to reach the stars.
Enjoying a childhood filled with their father’s love of celestial maps, myths, and legends. They’ll fall in love, as I did, never having to tiptoe over broken glass.
I glimpse him as an old man. Here, in a foldable seat, wisps of white hair curling over enormous ears. A thick blanket tucked around his legs and a grandchild nestled on his lap.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.
His smile falters but, at last, I do not.
I intertwine my fingers with his, with the hand that would never hurt me, and together we look to the stars.
Zelda C. Thorne is a British author who grew up in a pub in Essex and now lives in Norfolk with her family. She has been published by Off Topic, JAKE, and Flash Fiction North as well as shortlisting for the Olga Sinclair Prize, NYC Midnight, and Writer’s Playground. Her speculative piece ‘Star Status’ featured on the USA science fiction podcast Tall Tale TV and is the title of her debut collection.
Photo by Austin Schmid on Unsplash
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Always love short stories from this author!