Fading

Flash Autofiction

She didn’t want to do the new project. What could she write every week? The world was always asking us to be constant nowadays. And money. Why did it always have to be about asking people for money? She wished she could simply share her work freely. But she had no other way of living. Life was 40% more expensive than five years ago. And so, begged the question, what about in another five? Would she be priced out of living? There was so much sadness in her already, she knew she had to take special care of herself now. But how? She has only money for rent; nothing else. The numbers in her bank account only descend. She watches it happen. Doesn’t tell. Why? Why should she? No one will do anything and nothing can change.

She is such a mother. So a mother. She feels it in her whole body. Other people notice. She once suspected and is now sure. People comment on it. But do they imagine she is so alone? She lies back on the bed – can’t go down for food, as her housemate Annette and her partner and teenage stepdaughter are down there. Kids can sense inauthenticity much better than adults. They will see she’s fake. That the light in her eyes is preternaturally dim when she responds with exclamations, acknowledgements, ‘curious’ questions. It’s not that she doesn’t care about Annette, but that she likes, when feeling this way, not to have to pretend. When she doesn’t pretend, her cheeks don’t ache and her forehead doesn’t hurt and she feels rested.

On the bed, her breathing slows. She looks at her hand. It’s happening again. Her fingertips turn white and then translucent. It’s so easy to fade away. Perhaps it will be like her motherhood, since she lost her daughter. She will suspect others notice the fading, and then they will.

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