Flash Fiction Project

Yvonne

It is often-times difficult for me to feel things like other people do. It is strange to say this, because this sort of thing is dark and frankly frightening to some people. I'm really not trying to upset anybody when I say things like this, but it is truly how I feel. Or rather, how I don't feel.

I know that humans are supposed to be hardwired with emotions and feelings. We are supposed to be overjoyed when we open our colorful presents on Christmas. We are supposed to be glum when we hear about acts of terrorism on the news. We are supposed to find people falling off skateboards hilarious, and laugh 'till our faces are red as tomatoes. I don't feel any of this. All I feel is numb. All the time.

I suppose it's easy to assimilate to this sort of emotional society, however. I go with the motions, act like I have feelings like everybody else, and things seem to work out for me. But I still feel a perpetual numbness to any sort of emotional stimuli.

Naturally, I have tried to fix this about myself. I figured it would be easier to authentically feel things like other humans than to pretend like I do.

I have tried everything. I have spent money on numerous luxuries and niceties such as handbags and clothes like other girls my age. No joy.

I have watched hours upon hours of war documentaries and news footage of buildings being bombed and burned down. No sorrow.

I have gone as far as to lacerate myself with various kitchen utensils and brutalize my own dog, Henry. Not even my own blood or the yelps of my helpless canine sparked the slightest bit of emotional reaction within me.

I decided to confront my mother about this. Maybe she could help me, as mothers always can. I found her in the kitchen. The tile flooring was ice cold against my bare feet. "Mother," I began, "can I confide in you a grievance I have?"

"Of course, Yvonne. What has you bothered?"

"Well, sometimes, I feel as if I don't act like normal people should act. I feel like... I can't feel the way normal people should feel."

"Yvonne, you've always been very mature for your age. In fact, I admire it."

I clutched the knife I was concealing behind my back. "Thank you mother," I said with a faint, polite smile, "but there is something else I need you to do for me."

"What is it?" she pondered.

Unfortunately, not even my dear mother could aid in my plight. The sight of her bleeding carcass didn't give me even an inkling of remorse or grief. Her lifeless body only sparked one thought in my mind: how am I going to get rid of the body?

Maybe my mother couldn't help me after all. Maybe no one can. Maybe... no one can.