Flash Fiction: Chin Up

First drafted over on Typetrigger.

remy___keep_your_chin_up_by_mitch_el-d4dbydr

Chin Up

“Chin up mate,” Hank said as he patted my leg.

I suppose it was meant to be reassuring, but it only made me uncomfortable. If I wasn’t so miserable I think I would tell him to leave. It didn’t help that I was still in yesterday’s clothes and smelling like a cauldron of assorted stenches. I scratched at my chin to feel prickly hair–something I would have shaved off days ago if I gave a damn, if we were still together.

“Just know that we’re here for you buddy,” Hank said.

God, why does every trite expression he use make me want to throw a cushion at his big stupid face?
I shouldn’t say that. Hank’s a good guy. I’ve had phone calls and Facebook messages but Hank was the only one to show up in person, on my doorstep with a case of frozen dinners. I wish it was a case of beer so I could drink myself into a semblance of a good mood.

“You are eating?” Hank asked, looking at my frail figure.

I pointed to the empty Doritos packets on the floor.

“I thought as much. That’s why I brought you these dinners. Just chuck ’em in the freezer and come dinner time throw one in the microwave. Easy peasy,” Hank said. “Y’know what, I’ll put ’em in for you.”

Hank picked up the case of frozen delights and headed for my kitchen. He came back and stood in front of the couch. I didn’t get up. I think my body forgot how.

“Hope to see you back at work soon mate. Not sure how long I can keep covering for you,” Hank said.

I raised a limp hand and dropped it to my lap. That was me saying goodbye. Hank left me to my dark dungeon of despair. I looked over to the coffee table where my empty fish tank sat in the dark–the castle and treasure chest devoid of life.

Mister Gup Gup, it wasn’t your time.

 

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