Flash Fiction (something I’ll build on)

Prologue

            “What are you afraid of?”

            This is the type of question Olivia asks when she’s bored.  Right now, as we sit here, in the very front row of the movie theatre, watching the latest horror flick, she’s bored, even as she transports popcorn from bag to mouth.  Bored enough to laugh each time the killer pulls out another blunt or bladed weapon to strike his next victim.

            How come it’s always a guy, running around slashing everybody?

            “Just look around Chip.  Theatre’s sold out.”

            Olivia chews with her mouth open like a horse.  Each time she does, I never want to kiss her again.  Right now, her mouth is layered in a lipstick of butter.

            “Look at me Chip.  Dammit, you do this every time you talk to me.”

            There’s a man shushing us.  Leave it to Olivia to turn and pelt him with a popcorn kernel.  Now he’s really mad, but he’s two rows back.  It would take him a while to maneuver around legs and limbs, so he sits there with a look of disbelief.  I’m sure we’ll see him on the way out.  I’m almost certain of it.

            “Chip.”

            Yeah?

            “What are you afraid of?”

            You don’t want to know.

            Now she’s whispering to me, babying hot breath into my ear.  I like her better now.  Her perfume makes my mouth water.

            “There’s a prize in it for you.”

            She wants me to look down at her cleavage.  I look.  I’m programmed to look, so I look.  There are certain things in life you just shouldn’t fight against.  So I look long enough to miss another woman slain by an ax.  The woman screams, but by the time I look up, her head has gotten tired of her shoulders, and there goes Olivia squeezing laughter from her gut.  I’ll interrupt her-

            I’m afraid of me.

            “You don’t mean that.”

            Why not?

            Most horror films don’t really need dialogue.  I look at Olivia.  She’s cute, not pretty.  She looks young for a twenty five year-old.  Twenty maybe.  Still gets carded when she buys beer.  Right now she’s on a butter-high.

            “Well help yourself to my popcorn why don’t you?”

            Thanks.  So why not?  I’m telling the truth.

            “Why are you afraid of you?”

            Now she’s really laughing.

            “I don’t know.  Dreams and stuff.”

            She looks at me.  Puts the popcorn bag down on the gritty floor and really looks at me.  She knows.  The way she stares, she knows.

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