Flash Fiction

She claimed she was an imprisoned angel, a princess of some forgotten inheritance. But she was sad, every day she cried a river, every day except Sunday. On Sundays she was visited by a loyal courtesan, and on that day, she looked out through the diamond torn muslin to the horizon where a ghost of nothing floated over a flat of history. She recalled all the greats she had known, no longer there, no longer filling her with their giantness. Apart from her most loyal, she is alone now, an amalgamation of her many defects.

She had imagined all through her wild years, that they would die together teetering on the edge of glory. But now it was not to be. The courtesan lay dead on the floor of her prison spittle coagulating at the corners of his mouth, she was alone in her own overcrowded mind.

Her only escape was here in her self imposed prison. She sighed and ceremonially tipped the small bottle of pills onto the floor. Yet again tomorrow she would cry.