The Scarf by Scott Douglas

The Scarf

     When I think about my wife, I think about her scarf. She always wore it the same way: slightly loose around her neck with the left side just longer than the right. She took it everywhere with her. Everywhere…
 
     A woman stands in front of me, the scarf is flowing from her black hair and singing between the other passengers on the train. It’s crimson roses bleed over the white fabric, shining against the harshness of the world around it.
The train screeches to a stop, and my breath jumps out of me. The passengers push and shove the woman from the train. Her hair sways around her as she gets dragged away by the swarm. My lips tighten, it can’t be. I’m stupid for thinking this. I should forget about her.  Forget about that day…that day…
 
     Fumes had burned my nostrils as I ran through every room of that house. I rummaged through closets, tore apart beds, flipped over couches. Everything was there: clothes, shoes, bags and even her wedding ring. Everything was there, everything but her.
     A tin can sat in the middle of the kitchen, its sides were as black as the paper burning inside it. I pulled a piece from it, but it crumbled in my hands…
 
     It can’t be her. Veins throb in the back of my hands. The woman walks to the exit, the scarf sways from her neck, waving at me. My hearts aches, I have to know.
     I leap through the closing doors and push through the sea of people with polite apologies and a nod. I turn the corner. She’s there, swimming in the crowd. I follow at a distance hoping she can’t hear the pounding of my heart. But the gnawing question races through my brain.
     Am I fooling myself? I haven’t seen her face yet. There are thousands of those scarves hanging around the city but still…What if it’s her?
     I push through the crowd. She’s so close her hair nearly whips the taste from my mouth. She goes through the barriers and heads towards the exit. I follow; I hit my card down, but the barriers don’t move. I smash my card on the machine; nothing changes. My jaw hits the floor, I’m going to loose her. Again.
     An inspector comes and fiddles with the machine; my blood boils and turns my throat into a furnace. Every move he makes takes an hour, clocks tick away in my ears. Is this how it ends?
     Sweat pours from my brow as she reaches the exit and turns the corner. My knees shake, but I hold myself up. This can't be. Not again. Not again. My heart fires up.
     The words rip out of my mouth. “I have to know.”
     I leap over the barriers, pushing past the stunned crowd and shouting inspector, and sprinting towards the exit.
     The streets outside are packed. I have to find her. I barge through the waves of people towards the middle of the street avoiding the speeding cars. My heart is pounding in my chest; people’s eyes burn into me, but I don’t care. I’ll finder. My eyes scan the street. Where is she? The crowd runs in and out of shops, a couple fights to my side and an elderly man hurries after a bus. Where? My heart jerks into my throat, the scarf floats above the sea of people like a crimson-grey mist. She glances back just as she turns into a corner. It’s her.
     I bite my lip and rage through the crowd shoving them aside as I dart around the corner. The world behind me evaporates. The street is long, dark and made of concrete with a bin in the middle. Spiders’ legs scurry up and down my legs. For every one step I take, ten bounce off the wall and back to me. Birds sing on the roofs above, but the street is empty.
     My blood turns volcanic; ash sears my throat. She came here, I saw her. The world comes back to life and wreaks my ears. Voices scream at me. Where is she? Venom pumps through me. Cars roar through my stomach. Where is she? The street is dead, the birds above screech with laughter.
     “WHERE IS SHE?”
     I slam my heel into the bin. It flies through the air, smacks into the wall and hits the ground spewing muck over the floor. I storm back to the real world, how stupid can I get?  But something stops me, pulls me back.
The muck.
I walk over to it; there’s something in there, under the muck. I kick it aside and pick it up. A slow knife slides into my spine.
     The fabric is soft, warm and gentle. The red roses sleep on the black thorns wrapped around it. My breath leaves me. This is it. I know it.
     It’s the scarf.



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Bio: Scott Douglas was born in the UK, but now lives and teaches in South Korea. He has had a piece of flash fiction published, The Smile, by Out Of the Gutter magazine and is looking for more places to publish his work. His work focuses on ideas of humanity and what it means to lose it. His influences range from Dashiell Hammett to China Mieville, and he is always looking for genres to write in and explore. You can find him at twitter.com/sdouglas86

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