Flash Fiction – Cocaine Years – 409 Words

My friend knelt by the body, its face a mangled wreck, barely recognisable as human. He ran his hands over the body’s chest, searching for a wallet no doubt.
Moonlight glittered off broken glass.
He made a small, triumphant little noise, almost as if he had solved the idle matter of death already.
I hit her again. And again.
He stood up, running a long, pale hand through his unkempt, dirty brown hair whilst his other flipped open the black wallet he had taken from the corpse.
There was blood, a black stain across my fists.
His expression tightened subtly, so slight a movement that it was almost unnoticeable, even to me.  
She wasn’t crying anymore.
He was staring at me now, in a way he had never done before.
I hit her again. And again.
He crossed to me, stowing the wallet into one of the pockets of his ragged coat.
Expressionless, I watched her face cave under my fists, as I hit her again.
Hands clasped my shoulders, shaking me. I jerked from his grasp, amazed at the weakness in his arms.  
And again.
His mouth opened soundlessly, his thin lips shaped themselves around that all too familiar word.
My own skin had broken now, white bone rising from my bloody weapon, as I hit her again.
I hated it when he called me that now. That name that set my blood raging.
And again.
I hated him.
And again.
I warned him of its dangers. I told him this is where he would end up, though I would have laughed if told I would still be following him. It cost us everything.
I finally pulled myself away from her, my breath coming in short, painful bursts.
His once fine deerstalker was a ragged mess, as was his Inverness cape. These last years had not been kind to him.
These last years have not been kind to her.
His riding crops, his cane and Webley, his mind, they were all gone, sold to feed his addiction.
The years have not been kind to me.

He deserves this. She deserves this. For what they both did.
He shook my shoulders again, repeating that dreadful name.
I walked away. The footsteps lost in the foetid air.
I’m not him anymore, old friend. Your faithful lapdog died years ago. Slurred and desperate, his words finally broke through to me.
‘It’s The Woman, Watson! The Woman!’
I know Holmes. I know.

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