She tossed the duffel bag on the bed and looked at it. There was silence in the house now. God only knew when he’d be back.
She pinched the zipper between thumb and index finger and ripped the bag open in one violent move. The sound rose to a crescendo, ending on a happy note.
Ricketicketicketicketicketicketick. Why had she waited so long to do this?
She closed the bag. Then she opened it again, slowly now. She focused on that sound. The way the slider rambled the metal teeth. Ri-cke-ti-cke-ti-cke-ti-cke-ti-cke-ti-cke-tick. It ricocheted inside her skull.
Then the corners of her lips curled upwards. Like hot lava a high-pitched laugh erupted from her mouth. She started roaring, manically. At the same time, she closed and opened the bag, over and over and over again.
Late in the evening, when he fumbled his key into the lock of the front door, she was still lying on the bed next to the opened, empty duffel bag, giggling erratically, gone from the world, but free at last.
Bart Van Goethem. Writer of micro and flash fiction. Drummer of funk and rock music. The most subtle extrovert you’ll ever meet. Follow him @bartvangoethem.