The ancient sage was wrong. Hell is not other people. It’s the absence of the right ones. Or the one. She sat on the edge of a colossal tortoise-shaped rock, staring at the reflections of vivid pinks and lilacs and deep, deep purples–the night’s last. The bright, the pretty of it was too much, yet somehow not enough. The colors danced, ethereal, a child’s painting of ghosts rendered in that beginner twelve-colour oil set she’d bought years ago. The smudged, oil-soaked shadow of it on the too-small fridge in the never-quite-finished kitchen; because Bobbie’s dying took all the time out of the three of them. Then just her.
And this last pilgrimage.
She unscrewed the top from the glass perfume bottle. For mommy–Bobbie’s clumsy handwriting. She smiled, and forced herself to watch as the ashes fell and swirled into the glittering water.
This post was written for the Die Hard flashfiction contest - 150 words based on the above image. here's a link to the contest
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