The Missing Minute

The word of the week for the six-sentence story prompt is SPACE, and while my first thought was the final frontier, thank you Star Trek for that brainwashing,  I decided instead to go with a space as in an absence of something, in this case a memory of a single minute of time.


Most of the time a minute was just a minute, meaningless without the minutes that surrounded it, and then there was this minute.

This one minute of her life where there was nothing, a blank space where the memory should have been, preceded by the minutes of fighting, and followed by the minutes of far too much blood.

She was still in shock when she was taken into custody, her lawyer showing based on the news rather than a call, and she barely registered his outrage as he spoke with the police, getting her released as no charges were being filed.

She was arrested again days later, then out on bail, living as a yoyo, flitting in and out of prison, until a trial that would determine where the yo-yo ended its travels.

There were police, psychiatrists, experts, and witnesses, all paraded in and out of the court room, but In the end the facts weren’t clear, as despite the party being in full swing, no one saw who fired the fatal shot at a victim everyone had motive to want dead.

She wished that she could appreciate the reading of the verdict, revel in the not-guilty finding, but there was a minute of her life where there was only blank space, and so she would have to live the rest of her life never knowing the truth of the question, had she done it?

Marked

This dark little piece is a continuation of last weeks story about the witch and her vengeance. It was inspired by the six-sentence-story prompt HARMONY, by girlontheedge, and a few comments that were made on last weeks story concerning revenge.


She scraped a slash across the four lines, and felt a pang of regret as she looked at the scratches that decorated the bulk of her cauldron.
She could remember like it was yesterday, when she had stepped into the pool of harmony to join the order, and the water of purification had turned jet black.
Apologies had been made as she was ushered to the door, and it had taken weeks of crying, begging, before someone would finally tell her why she would never be welcome, why the others would not so much as look at her.
The water had turned because her soul bore a stain, a mark of her her own making, telling all who could see that she had used the gifts she had been given for ill purpose, and nothing she could do would ever remove it, would ever make her what she was before, worthy.
She had gone home and carved the first scratch into the side of her cauldron, making a vow, then and there, if she could not be of harmony, then she would be of vengeance, and as she ran a hand across the hashed pattern on the cauldron, she realized that she had kept that promise far too well…