Flash Fiction
$100 PRIZE
by Michelle Cox
She bursts into the bathroom and doesn't even
spare me a glance. But I know she's always aware of my
presence. The instant she thinks of me, I occupy space in
her mind like a single drop of blood occupies space in a
glass of water.

But I'm not her priority just yet.

She locks the bathroom door, drops to her knees on the tile
in front of Toilet and gracefully reaches back with her right
hand, grabbing her hair into a fisted pony-tail. She plunges
her left index finger into her mouth, pushing down on her
tongue. It looks like a grotesquely choreographed dance.

She gags and then quickly pulls her left hand out of her
mouth, her front tooth cutting a small flap of skin off the index
finger knuckle as she does so, vomit splashing into Toilet in
an oily, sour mess.

"Crap!" she curses. She's upset that she nicked her hand. It's
been a long time since she injured herself. Amateur mistake,
and she's not an amateur.

She takes a deep breath, pulling the odor of the vomit into
her lungs, gagging on its putrid essence.

Finger back down her throat in a swift motion, almost like
she's using sign language to communicate some sad truth to
Toilet, pressing on the back of her tongue, then back out
ahead of the vomit that rushes up her esophagus.

She hears her husband on the steps, so she pauses the

"Laura, we need to go. What are you going to wear?" he
calls as he enters the adjoining master bedroom.

"Shit. Shit. Shit. Can't I have five minutes alone?" she
whispers to Toilet. Raising her voice, she says, "Gary, I'll be
out in a minute. I'm probably going to wear what I have on."

She pulls some toilet paper into Toilet and leans in closer,
tipping her head as she sticks her finger down her throat.
She purses her lips together as the vomit comes up so she
can slowly release it down the side of Toilet's bowl, keeping
it from splashing loudly into the water. She doesn't want
Gary to hear.

He turns on the bedroom TV. Laura says his name to gauge
whether he can hear her. He doesn't respond, so she gets
back to business, vomiting once, twice, three times.

She stops when she sees the marker food, the brightly
colored Cheetos she quickly ate before dinner. Toilet says
it's how she knows she's gotten everything.

Laura reaches up and flushes, then gets to her feet, grabbing
a handful of paper from the roll. Tears have come to her
eyes and she dabs at them first, careful not to smear her
waterproof makeup. Then she wipes around her mouth and
checks her hands. She walks over to the mirror and leans in,
opening her mouth and examining her teeth. She grabs her
toothbrush, but as she's squeezing out the paste, she notices
a few orange-colored spots on her crisp white blouse just
over her breast.

"Fuck!" she says, starting to unbutton the blouse.

"Can I come in?" Gary says.

"Yeah. Sure."

He tries the knob. "The door is locked. Why'd you lock the

"I didn't," she lies as she reaches over and unlocks it. "Or I
didn't realize that I did."

She only lies to Gary about what she does with Toilet and
me. Most of the time, she just lies to herself.

"I'm going to have to change after all," Laura says, shaking
her blouse off. "I got something on my shirt at dinner."

Gary steps up behind her and reaches around to cup her
breasts, contained by a white lace bra, in his hands. "Let me
help you with that," he says, winking at her in the mirror.

She smiles but bats his hand away. "Stop. I need to change
and we have to go."

I know she wants time alone with me. She always does after
time with Toilet.

"We've got time for a quickie," Gary says.

She breaks the eye contact they've made in their mirror
reflections and steps forward, putting space between their
bodies. He frowns, so she tries to lighten her voice, make it

"Gary, don't pout.” She sidesteps past him out of the
bathroom and into the adjacent closet. “I'm having a fat day.
Let me get ready.”

The pleasant tone of her voice is like a radio station that
fades as your car speeds closer to no-man's-land. I hear her
rifling through her clothes and then she sighs loudly.

"Gary," she says, annoyed. "I need to get back in the
bathroom. Are you almost done?!"

He appears in the doorway. "Jeez. I thought you were
finished. Yes. I'm done." He sweeps his arm to the side in a
"come right in" gesture. She pushes past him with two shirts
and a pair of khakis in her arms.

"Can I please have a few minutes to decide what I'm going to
wear?" she snaps. Gary looks confused, not understanding
but also not surprised by Laura's suddenly darkened mood.

"I'm sorry. I just feel rushed." Laura says. She's trying to
control the irritation in her voice, but it's seeping through.

Gary nods and steps past her. "I'll be waiting downstairs."
He knows when to retreat. He'll offer kind words, gentle
touches and adoring glances throughout the night to try to
build her up, make her feel worthy of the love he so willingly
gives her.

But I can't retreat. And I'll fail her. I'll add to her unworthiness
because she doesn't understand my purpose. Never has.

She steps on me and I do what I do: I flash the number that
she lets define her.

Her kick is hard and swift. I don't break but she does, a little
bit every time she visits me. I wish I could give her the right
combination of numbers to release her from the porcelain

Michelle Cox is a professional freelance writer who sometimes misses
her days covering death and destruction as a cops and courts
newspaper reporter. In addition to writing fiction (soul food), she
currently writes and does social media for Fiftiness.com (crazy fun),
and contributes to Mamalode, 5MinutesforMom, Parent.co and
Henpicked. Michelle lives in St. Louis with her husband and their three
kids. She blogs at

The genesis of “Porcelain Prison”: One day I got to thinking about
what household appliance might be the antagonist in a story, and all the
voices in my head unanimously voted for the bathroom scale. Then I
started feeling a little bad for scales in general—just think of all the
things to which they bear witness and how absolutely misunderstood
they are. I hope Laura’s scale and the story he tells can help someone
jailbreak her own porcelain prison.