Listen to the author reading this story:
Never have I ever looked pert in a red polka dot dress. Smiled while folding clothes. Had a New York Times bestseller about tidying up.
But today I am discarding things that have outlived their purpose: his forgotten running shoes. Left-behind suits that no longer accommodated his waistline. Photos. The remote control he would never relinquish. The bed we slept on. Its timber frame splinters and cracks under the sledgehammer’s blows.
Never have I ever had my own Netflix series or been a millionaire.
But I have endured Richard’s drama the night he left: you didn’t, you never. My words? Caught like blades in my throat: but I, but you. Now I repaint my bedroom a dark, forest green that speaks to me of sanctuary. Still, regret rings through me like a tuning fork. If only I’d stood up for myself earlier. Stuck with my art degree. Regret vibrates, seeks somewhere to settle. I run until I vomit. The trembling continues. I scrub the kitchen floor until my knuckles leak pink onto the tiles.
Never have I ever trademarked a method for organising people’s lives.
But today I organise mine. At the street market, I find the perfect vessel: a tiny, sequinned box that winks colour. “For something beautiful?” the stallholder asks, raising his bushy eyebrows. I don’t meet his eyes. “No.” I know I could have done more, should have been more. But the next time regret worms its way to the tip of my tongue, to my unsaid words, I know what to do. I hold the cold metal of the scissors. Snip. The bleeding stops faster than you’d imagine. I tuck the waggy tip into the box. The next morning, when sunlight flashes indigo, amber and jade off the sequined box, it sparks joy.
Cole Beauchamp is a queer writer based in London, where she lives with her girlfriend. She has never performed in the circus or cut off body parts with scissors. Her stories have been in the Wigleaf Top 50, nominated for the Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, Monarch and Best Microfiction awards. She is a contributing editor at New Flash Fiction Review and can be found at odd hours on Bluesky @nomad-sw18.bsky.social