Measure (short story, drama at a war memorial)

For NYCMidnight's Flash Fiction Challenge, I had to come up with a short dramatic story (really short...max. 1000 words) that took place at a war memorial and mentioned a measuring tape. Odd prompts indeed! But you know, I had a lot of fun with it.

We were given the prompts on Friday (well...Saturday, as it was just past midnight) and had till almost midnight Sunday to turn in our submissions. Here's what I came up with (after a lot of procrastinating and starting over). I literally started this story at 5pm that Sunday, and turned it in with minutes to spare. So here it is, unedited, warts and all! Thanks for reading!

Synopsis

Fleur's life is the size of her waist, the length of her arms, and the steps she takes toward her fate. In the shadows of St. Petersburg's Narva memorial, she struggles against a life-altering decision.

Measure

“You’re so tiny,” he whispered. “How small is your waist?” He was getting excited, breathing fast. He smelled like blini and red caviar.

“Wait!” She spoke loudly, squirming underneath him.

“Quiet, they’ll hear us!”

She was terrified at what was about to happen. There was sweat under her breasts. She turned her head. Could see the Narva arch through the window. Dust on the shoe boxes above. Size thirty-five…size thirty-six…a pink ribbon hanging out of a size thirty-seven.

One hand, he slid from just above her knee to her inner thigh. The other hand, he held over her mouth.

***

A sleek limousine and a heavy GAZ Pobeda motored by. Debris danced across the flagstones. January winds. A soft wail.

It was a particularly frigid day, and the arch was cold. Fleur caressed it, alabaster hands on icy stone. Circling round, she launched into a double turn. She attempted an arabesque, going up on one toe, extending her long arms. She felt powerful for an instant. But her leg trembled. Her knee was weak. Panting, she crouched down, then rocked back onto her cushiony bottom.

She still bled now and then. Her piss burned, and she would find red smears on her inner thighs. “It’s not his fault,” she said to the dirty bathhouse walls.

She never spoke of it outside those cold, stinking rooms. Especially not to Rusinov, who was hard to handle as it was. Who wanted to control every inch of Fleur’s body. Measure it with that dreaded tape. Pinch and prod and prescribe illegal thyroid medication so she’d lose more weight.

“Your bust is too big. And you need to get your waist down to 23 inches.”

Fleur had refused to take any pills, but it was a battle she would eventually lose. Like the one she was waging today. How appropriate that her final stand should take place here in Stachek.

Once majestic, the “triumphal” Narva monument had begun to crumble after repeated bombardment. It cast a dark shadow over the square. A goddess flanked by horses was missing a wing tip. Looking up, Fleur could see the horses were all male. Their enormous testicles hung over inscriptions in Russian and Latin.  

She lowered her gaze. She could just see him through the memorial arch. Madame Rusinov was next to him, smoking. Probably giving him dirty looks.

“I’ll talk to her,” Fleur had said to him yesterday. “Tell her we’re fine. It’s my life, not hers.” He had done nothing to indicate he’d heard. 

Anton had been deep in slumber when she’d said her last words to him. “I want you. Despite everything.” No tears—she was delicate in appearance only. “Antosha moya,” she’d whispered. Soon she too had been asleep.

In the morning there had been no time for chatter. They were heading to the square early, and it was a long walk. He’d been unusually quiet as Fleur put on the drab gray dress that pinched at the waist. But his slate-gray eyes had followed her possessively.

They’d arrived at the square red-cheeked and sweaty despite the cold. Rusinov had been waiting, ready to argue with her headstrong charge. Pulling Fleur away from Anton.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Fleur had said. “I don’t want to dance. I can’t push my body anymore. I just want to live a normal life…with Anton.” She’d looked fearfully at Rusinov. “You could find another student. Someone even younger and better.”

“And you’ll be happy supporting Anton? Doing thankless work while he sucks the life out of you?” Rusinov had glanced over at him, but just for an instant. Her eyes had locked on Fleur’s. “You were so close to success—the best Nikya since Anna Pavlova—and you threw it all away.”

“I need him.” Fleur had spoken quietly, so quietly. She’d felt something like hysteria tightening her throat, but she’d swallowed and taken a breath. Rusinov did not respond to emotional displays.

“You came to me, remember? Asked for my help. Begged. Said you would do anything for another chance.” Ah, an irate Rusinov. Truly magnificent when the anger wasn’t directed at you.

Fleur had searched for understanding in the hard, lined face. The old endearment had slipped from her lips: “Tetya….” But Fleur wasn’t a child anymore, and Rusinov was far from being an auntie.

“Go. Wait for me over there.”

And as always, Fleur had obeyed. Counting flagstones as she went. One, two, three flagstones away from Anton. “Four, five…”

Rusinov had turned around, taking a few brisk steps back toward Anton.

Now Fleur watched Rusinov hail over a man in an expensive coat. Fleur stood up, her hands on the rough stone. She strained to see. Was that Doctor Beria?

Rusinov’s hands dropped off the buggy, but the Madame didn’t move away. Awkwardly, the man stepped in and maneuvered it toward the street.

Fleur watched man and buggy move away, crossing the grayish stone that ringed the memorial and reaching the rust-colored road.

A tram blocked her view. Fleur took off running, ignoring a shout from Rusinov. Once the buggy was in her sight again, she followed at a distance. Was Anton asleep? Whose breast would he feed from tonight?

Images from the past year flooded her brain. Her swollen belly, about 30 centimeters at 30 weeks. Pinkish, slug-shaped bumps had appeared all over it in the final month. Anton’s purplish, mottled skin the first time she held him. How he tried to fit his little mouth around her enlarged nipples.

The man headed east toward the river, pushing the buggy with care. She got closer. She was just two or three yards away. Then she began to fall back. She was leagues and leagues from them. On a stage, leaping and pirouetting away from everything she’d ever wanted, until the distance was too far to measure.