I Ran Through Open Fields 

I looked at myself in the mirror, salty lines of mascara streaking down my cheeks. Bitch rang in my ears but my eyes showed no hatred for Sasha who threw the can of soda at me, or Patty who graffitied nasty stuff with a marker on my bag. I could hear Mom's footsteps outside the bathroom. 

"Are you OK?" 

"I'm fine, Mom."

Slurping noodles that were stuck to my chin, laughing and making faces, I had forgotten everything at dinner as I joked with my mother, just like we pretended to forget about Florence, tried to ignore her empty chair next to mine, the one with pink flowers on the backrest, painted by Florence at the wood craft camp that summer. I offered to clean up and clear the sink, and asked Mom to get to bed. "You have an early doctor's appointment tomorrow, remember?" 

I heard her door close, and was relieved she didn't ask me again about today. I really didn't have anything to say, and Mom had enough problems of her own. The cyst in her right breast and her bloody stools bothered her, and worried me more than my teenage scrapes. I wanted to quickly finish up and rush to my dreams; they soothed me, and I could dream whatever I wanted by thinking about it just before I fell asleep. It worked most of the time; sometimes I rode a golden horse that galloped on the Great Wall of China, my hair streaking like shooting stars, or ran on a caramel road arching through a green, open field lined by rows of nodding sunflowers. It made me forget all the names Kevin called me or thoughts of my mother lying in a hand-painted casket or the messages that some bully left on my cell phone. I could close my eyes and vanish into the clouds on a white elephant, stop wishing Florence had done the same thing: shut out her gloom from school by stealing under the pillow, shut out memories of Dad who probably didn't think we were good enough for him.

Tonight, the swirls of the fan seemed louder, and my pillow sunk more than usual. Sleep stayed elusive; my horses and elephants had abandoned me. I got up and went into Florence's room. Mom had taken down all her pictures from the walls and bookshelves. But it didn't matter. I saw Florence all the time, sitting behind me on my horse, holding my hand as we sprinted down dirt roads, and in this room, lying motionless, blue lights flashing in the window. 

I sat on her bed, then curled up under her blanket. In that familiar cocoon where both of us had giggled so often, where she had cried into my neck wondering why schoolmates were not the way they used to be, I promised myself that next time I would fling the soda can back at Sasha. Next time, I would wrap my fingers around her neck till she agreed that a girl forty pounds heavier than her could crush her spine in no time. There was no flying or running in my dreams that night. Just Mom, Florence and me sitting at the dinner table, slurping noodles.

Bio: Ajay Vishwanathan is mesmerized by the power of words, more now when he sees his two-year old twins form them.  Two-time Best of The Net Anthology nominee, Ajay has work published or forthcoming in over seventy literary journals, including elimae, The Potomac, DecomP, Toasted Cheese, and Stymie Mag.