An Alternative Tale

An Alternative Tale

Flash Fiction

Druther Monkard

 

 

 

I believe that over time, stories become truths. Original realities confused and mainly removed.

Hyped and transformed into more fantastical versions and forms, the more times they are spun.

I’m guilty of this too, turning the most embarrassing things I have done, where I have hated myself most, into yarns that create laughter, where there was only self-pity, shame.

I’m a liar, I never meant to be one. Everyone is. I don’t think anyone plans to be in the goodness of their heart. Small white lies, caring for someone else, letting things slide, not telling them what they truly did last night, years pass…I forget what the origin was even, but oh well.  This is what my grey cells now remember.  The mind works strangely. A lie at fifteen becomes a reality at thirty-five.  What was that original lie a cover for now? Who knows? It must have been something terrible. It’s been covered over so many times my brain can no longer trace the original cut. Just a few seconds of an incoherent flashback that makes no sense anymore. I can no longer visualize the real detailed faces of grandparents, great aunts and uncles, without a photograph. Even though I know they looked after me, fed me, cared for me. I still feel their personalities, laughs, I see their smiles, small memories of being in a woodshed, holding a grenade, collecting tadpoles in a pond near a mining area, taking a box of toys from under a chair, I remember the toys. I remember the green box they were kept in for me.

I met a friend recently and we had got fucked up one night in younger years, him more as he was in pain. I cleaned his face, wiped his arse and made sure he didn’t die in his sleep. Punched him in the guts on occasion to make sure he was breathing. I remember the fear, which is one of those memories that stay longest. That was probably twenty-five years ago, we’re different now. We talked about that mental night, and his stories were better, about climbing walls, falling out of trees, smashing stuff whilst listening to thrash metal. I didn’t mention my memories, his seemed better.

It works both ways. I’m confident I was there when another was hurting from mother, father, sisters and others. Became an outlet over years to hear anger and fears, without judging, just listening, advising when I could. Sharing the weight. The only person they could talk to I was told. Now that is forgotten, the mind works in strange ways. These things never happened that way she says.

 

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