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You don’t know anything

Kristina England | Alankrita Amaya

There was an accident. Bobby said there was an accident. He said I was in the accident. He said I caused the accident.

Moron, I thought.

Bobby said he was there. He went so far as to say he was dead.

“Then why are you talking me?” I asked.

“Because you’re dead, too,” he said.

“I’m not dead,” I said.

“Look around,” he said, but I kept my eyes focused on his face.

“No, why should I,” I said.

“Because you’ll know the truth. Listen, I can’t stand here all day. I have to move on.”

“Where are you going?” I asked. “We were supposed to go to the museum,” I said.

“The museum isn’t here. It isn’t anywhere anymore,” he said.

I turned to point and saw nothing just as he had said. I turned back and said, “It’s there. We just can’t see it yet.”

But Bobby wasn’t there. Neither was anything. No grass, no ground, no car. It looked as if I was on a stage painted all in black in a room painted all in black. I walked across what I thought was the floor, but my feet made no sound.

“Bobby,” I shouted. “Bobby, are you there?”

“He’s not,” someone said.

I stared at the sound and found nothing at all. The someone was there, but he wasn’t.

“Where is Bobby?”

“Bobby’s dead,” the someone said. “Sam, you’re dead, too.”

I batted the air. “You don’t know anything. Go ahead and get out of here.”

And the someone was no longer there. Nor was the there there at all. I went to sit down, but couldn’t remember the action. I went to stand, but there were no legs to stand on, so I just made myself disappear.

About Kristina England

Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing is published or forthcoming at Crack the Spine, Extract(s), Gargoyle, The Hessler Street Fair Anthology, The Quotable, Yellow Mama, and other magazines. Find her on her blog.

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