You forgot to lock the front door. How could you be so careless? There’s an intruder in your home and it’s all your fault. Who would break into your home? Perhaps it’s the mailman or the crone next door. There’s a crash downstairs and you slide on your slippers. Maybe it’s that pesky rat. You remember the mess it made. Blood and guts and glue all over. Maybe it’s your little one. Just one more cookie before bed, she said. Maybe it’s your eldest. You’ve caught him like this before. Red in the face with a condom and apology in his pocket. The floor creaks as you descend downstairs. You brace yourself—brace for impact.
#
You forgot to buy eggs. No, it was milk. The eggs are in the fridge. There’s always eggs in the fridge. When you get downstairs, you check to make sure. You admire them on the shelf. The white shells. The sterile light hurts your eyes. You slide your fingers down the rubber rack edge. You find the tomatoes, the garlic, the container of grapes. Something reeks, and you lean in to find the culprit. The strawberries on the shelf below. Rotten. All rotten. You decide to throw them out. They must be thrown out. Nothing rotten. Not in your house.
#
You forgot to turn on the alarm. How could you be so careless? There’s trouble in the neighborhood. Now in your kitchen. You heard all about it from the geezer across the street. We look out for each other, he said. These are good people that live on this block. Cameras and sensors and guard dogs. But that didn’t stop your intruder. You forgot that people lurk outside after dark. Predators and burglars and drifters. You’re safe inside. Away from it all. Perhaps it’s just the neighborhood children. Children play outside. A harmless prank, your intruder. This soothes you. And for a moment you close your eyes and feel yourself drifting back upstairs. Back to bed and back to sleep and back to a place where children play tag at night.
#
You forgot to pick up your son. Was it soccer or flute lessons? No, a birthday party. You forgot to send a gift. Your intruder must be searching for his rightful present. You forgot there’s a dentist appointment tomorrow. Braces, they said. You forgot to tell the little one. The dentist must be in your kitchen, armed with drills and probes and tweezers. You forgot your son’s applying for college. A big letter’s coming in the mail. It must be the mailman. You forgot to ask your mother-in-law for that college money. The checks that never came. That’ll never come. It’s your mother-in-law that’s lurking in the pantry. Scraping quarters and dust and pennies. You’ve got to write it all down. A grocery list. You take the last step into the kitchen and find a pen and paper by the coffee grinder. And you write everything down. Everything you’ve long forgotten. Schedules and deadlines and debts. Your hand cramps as you get to the end. That’s it, you think aloud. Pick up your son and kill the dentist and pray to Jesus that the check arrives. Alas! How could you be so careless? One more thing. You forgot to buy eggs.
#
You forgot you aren’t alone. There’s a tremendous crash in the pantry. Intruder! You shriek as you duck below the island. Careful. You’ll wake the children. Who will protect them if you’re gone? You forgot that your husband is home. Oh, the husband! How could you be so careless? No intruder after all. Just your husband. The one who protects you. Your home. Your community. Your street. When he rises from the pantry, you squeeze his shoulders with relief. You forgot that your husband likes his midnight snack. Just one more cookie before bed, he says. You smile and watch him take a bite. Sweet and delicious. You forgot that you have a beating, tender heart.
#
You forgot all about the plan. You were supposed to stay in bed, he says. How could you be so careless? Your husband scolds you and wipes crumbs from his chest. And what’s this—he points down to the paper in your trembling hands. Do you want to get caught? You set down the paper and straighten yourself out. Through the gloom of night, you see your husband’s face. You forgot you’re much older now. Wrinkles and spots and secrets on his lips. Finally you ask him: so it’s done, then? He stays quiet. I’ll go wake the kids, you say. You turn and leave that kitchen. Back up the stairs to the place where solace always finds you and dreams never come true.
#
There’s something else you’ve long forgotten. Perhaps the greatest truth of all. You are a barbarian. A blood-hungry, maniacal one. You forgot you never liked this cul-de-sac. Chores and neighbors and rats and all. When you get to your bedroom, you can already smell smoke. There’s a blaze in the kitchen by now. You rise and wake the children. What is it, mama? Your youngest blinks away sleep. The eldest is up next, and together you race downstairs. I don’t understand, your son cries. What’s going on? There’s smoke filling your lungs. You forgot you left the stove on. That’s all you can say. Soon, you’re fleeing down the street. Your lungs burn and you feel heat behind you. You forgot what it feels like to run. Soon, your husband will join you on the street. Made it out just in time, he’d say. You smell the headlines and tragedy from afar. But something pangs in your chest. The poor dog upstairs. You forgot to take him with you. Alone and forever asleep. Poor thing, you think. But you forgot how much you hated him.
Oliver Cubillos is a writer and filmmaker from Southern California. He recently graduated from Emerson College in Boston, Massachusetts, with a BFA in Media Arts Production and a minor in literature. His work was recently published in Bright Flash Literary Review and Free Flash Fiction.
Image: xenia, morguefile.com
Check out HFR’s book catalog, publicity list, submission manager, and buy merch from our Spring store. Follow us on Instagram, Bluesky, and YouTube. Disclosure: HFR is an affiliate of Bookshop.org and we will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase. Sales from Bookshop.org help support independent bookstores and small presses.
Heavy Feather Review 