A Story Written on a Bet

A FOREWORD

This story was written as part of a friendly writing challenge to see if decent fiction could be crafted from an obviously ridiculous premise. The participants had to visit a website full of desperate complaints, select one at random, and write a story based on it.

I ended up with this exact complaint (translated into English here):

"It's almost 3 a.m., and I can't sleep because something in my house smells awful. My sense of smell is annoyingly sharp, and I've sniffed everything like an idiot, but I still can't find the source... How long will I have to endure this? Please shoot me!"

I was outraged by this twist of fate, but a challenge is a challenge—especially when it's extended by my former literature club mates. I had to write. And it had to be yuri, you know. Because it's me.

Spoiler alert: I won.

***

I dreamed that the roof of the house had collapsed. It creaked and bent under the hurricane-force wind and finally gave way. With the sound of shattering windows, a beam crashed down onto the dining table, smashing the tea set. Following the beam, the junk stored in the attic spilled out, mixed with rotten wooden debris. Ice-cold rain blew in through the broken window. There was no light. In the gaping hole above, I could see the pitch-black clouds laced with the splinters of beams. The wind sprayed the rain into almost weightless droplets, so sharp and cold they burned my skin as they touched it. It felt like I was breathing in the rain, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. When I thought I was about to drown, my legs jerked convulsively, and I opened my eyes.

The room was dark. A lilac branch, swaying slightly in the gentle breeze, brushed against the windowpane, and moonlight streamed through it. The roof was intact, and the tea set was still where she had left it before leaving.

She was probably already out of surgery. I reached for the phone but remembered that she had promised to text or call when she could. It was still too early, of course. She was either still under anesthesia or already asleep. I looked at the tea set again and mentally called myself an idiot. It was a trivial operation. And I didn't even move the cups and saucers she had arranged just so before she left. And God forbid if something happened to her, I wouldn't touch the set. I'd just stare at it, not daring to move it. Because she was alive when she placed the cup on the table in that exact way—handle slightly to the right of the window, toward the small bookshelf.

Idiot. God knows what an idiot I am.

And nobody dies from such operations. In a few days, she'll be home. Here. She'll sit in the chair by the bed and ask why the hell I didn't even bother to do the dishes while she was gone. And I'll lie and say I was too busy so I don't look like too much of a sentimental fool in her eyes.

Sometimes I think that's why she loves me. Because I'm a hopelessly sentimental fool. I can't imagine how anyone could love that, but she manages. Maybe that's why she flatly refused my offer to go with her to the hospital.

"Nothing's going to happen to me, why are you so worried?" she said. "You'd better stay home and fix the roof. If there's a storm or something, it'll just blow it off."

As soon as she left, I got to work. I needed to keep my hands busy. What a stupid dream. There'd been too much roof work that day. No wonder it showed up in my dreams.

The lilac branch, with its leaves pressed against the window, began to sway more vigorously. The wind was picking up. I got out of bed and looked outside: a cloud was drifting over the full moon. What a stupid dream. I lay back down. The wind was rustling outside, and soon I heard the hissing of rain beating down on the grass. The sound was lulling, and I didn't notice when I fell asleep again.