A flash fiction
She was. And then she wasn’t. And then she couldn’t.
But she knew she could. And she knew she shouldn’t.
But what else could she do?
So she did.
And she did it again.
And then she waited. And she listened.
…the words were aimed at her and not anyone or anything else.
The problems were due to her and her alone.
She became the focus of…
Well, of what?
And that’s where the problem lay. There was a problem and she’d been made to feel as if it was her problem but when it roared drunkenly across the room at her it looked like it wasn’t her problem at all. And the looks on people’s faces told her it wasn’t her fault either.
The problem was hate.
And cunning and concealment.
And spiking a drink with alcohol in order to prove all that to a roomful of people was the worst – and best – thing she’d ever done.
Despite the rumours.