MicroHorror

A buzz filled the gray room as Clarissa folded a blouse, tucking it into a cloth suitcase. “Mother, I’m about done. Aren’t you at least going to say goodbye?”

Clarissa knew the stubborn old woman wouldn’t answer. She glanced at Mother’s silhouette in the wheelchair, facing the window where Mother loved to watch birds at the feeders.

The buzz reminded Clarissa of hummingbird wings, Mother’s favorite.

Another blouse folded. “After all these years—in this house—with you—” Clarissa trembled and bit her lip. “Well. I think I deserve a trip, don’t you?”

The buzz swirled.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. I made arrangements.” Clarissa giggled. The suitcase snapped shut.

“Goodbye, Mother. I’ll send postcards.”

The storm door banged shut behind her.

Flies circled Mother’s head, landing on her face, her empty eyes, the slash in her throat where white things crawled.

The buzz filled the room.