Flash Fiction Fridays: Street Lights

Angela Rossi, Trauma Specialist

I’m lying on a 17th-century Isfahan Persian rug.

I only know that because he told me. How much he paid, how long he waited. A one-of-a-kind, he said.

Who cares?

“I’ve got a knife, you motherfucker, and I ain’t afraid to use it!”

“And who is that yelling?” he wants to know.

“It’s Mother,” I tell him. “She’s locked herself in the bathroom. Again.”

That’s where she goes, the bathroom. That’s where she always goes. The only bathroom in the house.

Imagine you’re an eleven-year-old girl with braces and ridiculous hair, and you can’t get into the bathroom to brush your tinsel teeth or comb your ridiculous hair, not even before school, because your goddamned mother is passed out behind the locked door.

“Is it supposed to be this color?” I ask. “The rug. Is it faded?”

“Let’s go back to your memory,” he says.

I close my eyes again, shove my hands deep into the front pockets of my Levi’s, and finger the tiny scrap of pink silk.

My legs, crossed at the ankles, rhythmically click the buckles of my favorite black leather boots, click, click, click.

“What happens next?”

“There’s someone in the hall,” I tell him. “I can see the shadows under my bedroom door. They’re coming to get me, so I close my eyes tight. Hold my breath. And I wait.”

“You leave her alone, you son-of-a-bitch! Don’t you touch her!”

Click, click, click.

“Still your mother?” he wants to know.

“She’s just so loud.”

Click, click, click.

Even with this enormous picture window above my head, I’m comfortable here. It’s safe. It’s downtown. Woodward Avenue, for chrissakes. But who would guess?

I go back to resting my eyes. I like the way this feels.

Click, click, click.

It’s habit. I never realized how much I do it, but he has.

I can hear him up there in his hand-made Senator's Swivel-Tilt Button-Back Executive Desk Chair. I hear the hand-crafted burgundy cowhide creak as he leans forward.

Handcrafted cowhide.

Click, click, click.

He told me all about the chair too.

I picture him peering down at me over his half-frames. Imagine him making note of the clicking.

“Then what?” he prods.

“Same as always. Bedroom door bangs open against the dresser, everything flies everywhere, Daddy’s big arms gather me up in a bunch, squeezed into his squeaky leather jacket with hard buckles and razor-sharp zippers digging into my skin. Me, my pillow, and Grammy’s afghan, all bundled together tight. Cigarettes, beer, and his goddamned Old Spice, out the front door we go.”

Click, click, click.

A chill ripples my spine.

Icy air biting at my bare little baby feet. I land hard on the back seat. Car door slams shut.

Oh, but Mother’s screams still reach my ears—even from inside the house.

Click, click, click.

“Like I said, she howls,” I tell him.

“Go on,” he says. “Please.”

“So, the car’s already running. It’s loud. Pipes. You know what pipes are? Cherry Bombs? Glasspacks?”

Click, click, click.

“Go on,” he says. Annoyed.

“Big Seger fan. Beautiful Loser pounds from Daddy’s 6x9s. He was so proud of those damn speakers. Pioneers. Loud as hell, but Daddy? Daddy doesn’t care. We just drive through the neighborhood like we own it, like we own the whole damn town.”

Click, click, click.

“I peek through the little square holes in my afghan and smile at all the familiar streetlights beaming down at me. One by one, they peek in. They wink as we drive along.”

Click, click, click.

Her pale lips reveal a thin smile.

“I remember thinking, the streetlights see me. Like, they know I’m here. They see me, and I see them back.”

Click, click, click.

“I remember wishing everybody could see me like that, as the streetlights saw me. As Grammy saw me.”

Click, click, click.

“Grammy used to say that God sees me that way too, that God is always there, always looking down from above like that, watching over me, keeping me safe.”

Click, click, click.

“But even then, I knew that wasn’t true. It was just something she was supposed to say. Something she wanted to believe.”

Click, click, click.

“Tell me more about your parents,” he says, creaking back in his leather chair.

“Daddy was a biker, street thug, a hustler. You know. Among other things.”

Click, click, click.

“In and out of jail.”

Click, click, click.

“Mother was crazy, his ‘crazy old lady,’ he used to say.”

Click, click, click.

“And me?”

Click, click, click.

“I was the accident they fought over, like spilled milk or dog shit on the carpet.”

Click, click, click.

“Always drunk and fighting.”

Click, click, click.

“Yelling at one another.”

Click, click, click.

“Mother threatening to kill herself one minute…”

Click, click, click.

“…then trying to kill him the next.”

Click, click, click.

“And when Daddy wasn’t home…”

Click, click, click.

“…she’s trying to kill me.”

Click, click, click.

“She pulled a gun on me once.”

Click, click, click.

“At some point…”

Click, click, click.

“…you get tired of being scared.”

My eyes flutter open.

Click, click, click.

Painted flakes of history dangle off the coved plaster ceiling above me.

Click, click, click.

“That’s when you fight back.”

Click, click, click.

“Interesting,” he says.

Click, click, click.

“And who are we fighting now?”

Click, click, click.

I know I should say something.

Click, click, click.

Throw him a bone.

Click, click, click.

Some notable quip he can furiously scribble in my file.

Click, click, click.

Fuck that.

Click, click, click.

Dr. Bahndiwad swivels in his chair, keeping time with the click, click, click of Angela’s boots.

Click, click, click.

The realization annoys him.

Click, click, click.

He stands.

The sudden movement springs Angela into a seated position, legs crossed, arm poised to push off the floor.

He can feel her tension. Her eyes glare at him.

“The work you do, Angela. Your therapy practice,” he says.

“You work with a very specific clientele.”

Dr. Bahndiwad takes pride in his voice; deep, calm, and soothing.

He enjoys the baritone feel of it, the way it resonates throughout his cavernous office.

Angela’s eyes burn into him.

He clears his throat and attempts a casual stroll out from behind his enormous bubinga wood desk, arms folded across himself. One hand reaches up and strokes his stubbled chin.

“It’s well known who these young people are…” he turns to face her.

“Who their parents are, Angela.”

He pauses for a reaction but gets none.

In fact, her glare makes him uncomfortable. This woman.

He breaks eye contact and resumes his casual stroll about the office.

“These people are dangerous, Angela. Powerful, some would say criminal. Although I’m sure you never discuss those things in your sessions.”

Angela’s face reveals nothing.

“And I would never want it to be known that you and I ever discuss these things in our sessions.”

“Is that understood?”

“Angela?”

“Ange…”

“Ha! What’s the matter, Doc? You scared of the boogie-man?”

Angela’s eyes narrow.

“And why’d you move way over there, away from me, your desk, and this big picture window you’re so proud of?”

Angela’s eyes dart side to side as she races through scenarios in her head.

She stops, sneers, and throws a suspicious glare in Bahndiwad’s direction.

His sudden distance, the discussion, the window, the buildings across the street, barely occupied, the dark sedan from this morning…

She pops off the floor, slips into her jacket, and breaks for the door.

“Will I see you next week?” he calls after her.

Angela turns left out of Bahndiwad’s office and left again through the fire door into the stairwell.

She bounds up two flights, skipping every other step, and backs herself into the wall, listening, three fingers at her carotid artery, monitoring her pulse.

Satisfied, both that she isn’t being followed and that the sudden rush up the stairs hasn’t budged her heart rate, she races down the staircase, into the parking garage, and out onto the street below, head swiveling over each shoulder as she hurries along the empty sidewalk.

A shiny black Cadillac Escalade SUV speeds up the street and pulls along the curb beside her.

Angela opens the rear door and slips inside.

“Belle Isle, Madame?” Ruslana asks, speeding off into traffic.

“Yes, Ruslana, thank you. That would be nice. Any messages?”

“Ysabelle,” Ruslana says. “Many times, she has called.”

Angela softens into the cream leather interior.

She enjoys Ruslana’s heavy Ukrainian accent—even when she doesn’t like the message.

“And Mr. Giovanni,” Ruslana adds, meeting Angela’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Very serious, Mr. Giovanni. Says urgent. You must call.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Angela says, fidgeting and annoyed.

“Ysabelle first. Can you put up the screen, please? Oh, and Ruslana?”

“Yes, Madame?”

Angela smiles. She likes the way Ruslana says it, heavy on the first syllable, “MEH’dem.”

“Let’s see if we can find a different therapist, okay? No rush. Same setup.”

“Yes, Madame. You no like this doctor?”

“He’s okay,” Angela says, picking up the remote.

“But he’s got a plate glass window the size of Texas up there, and it feels like the whole damn city can see me.”

---

An excerpt from my work in progress.

What do you think?

Comments, critiques, and suggestions are always welcome. 🙏

Thanks.

---

I love you guys! ☺️

Be safe out there.

-Paul