A short - short story about placing myself in someone else's shoes

I looked at my new tattoo.

‘WHITE AND PROUD’ was now written across my abdomen. 

It had been unbelievably painful, but seeing it in the mirror did make me proud and strong.  It made me feel complete.  I had to show the superiors that I was ready to take the next step and be a true Brother.  

A permanent reminder of what I believed in was a requirement. It was my first tattoo but I thought that was the easy part.  What came next made my skin turn cold.

Growing up, I got good grades, stayed out of trouble and had a succession of male and female nannies.  The one constant in my life was my Auntie Ellie.  

Auntie Ellie didn’t like anyone that wasn’t white and American.  She voiced her suspicions on any neighbours that were Black, Asian or Arabic.   

She hated them all. 

So while my mother worked, my Auntie educated me on what was wrong with this country and who to blame for the mess we were in. 

I knew of the Brotherhood from the stories Auntie Ellie had told me. 

I decided to join. 

They said I would be accepted, as long as I passed a test. I arrived at the location with three Molotov cocktails.  It was an everyday corner store, a place I would have gone into any other day.  But it was owned and run by Asians.

I lit the first of the cocktails and took my first step in making the world right again.

A short-short story from my Masters Degree in Writing

1.      Imagine I say the word ‘red’. Write down the first three words that come to mind.

Wine, hair, blood.

 Now incorporate the three words in a ‘short short-story’ (250 words) prompted by the cue:

You are sitting at your writing station with your back to an open window. You suddenly feel a chill.

I stared at what I had written.

It was equal parts a suicide note and a confession.  I had tried to wipe off as much of her blood as I could, but red stains covered the page I was writing on.  Perhaps it was poetic. She always did find a way to mess things up. I read through what I wrote again, before shoving it aside.

Standing up, I felt dizzy and tottered towards the kitchen.

We had been in the middle of dinner, when the argument started.  As per usual, it was about money.  I had brought home an expensive bottle of red wine because I was in the mood to celebrate, Irene had taken one look at the bottle and her expression darkened.  I knew trouble was going to be happen but I didn’t care.  Work had been especially brutal and it was Friday, I wanted to have fun, she on the other hand, wanted to fight.

I had tried to keep control, but when she started talking about my mother, I finally snapped. 

I grabbed a frying pan and my wife ended up on the kitchen floor.

Looking down at her, Irene’s red hair made it hard to see where the blood was seeping from.  

I was now a widower by my own hand.

Voices started, unbidden. 

Escape!

Get rid of the evidence!

Turn yourself in! 

But in the end, there was only one solution.

I turned towards the open window.