The Mute


another constricted piece – suggested by one of the wonderful writers in my school creative writing class – 200 words about someone wearing a top hat

The sadness is real enough, helped on by a sharp poke in the ribs, a quick slap to the back of my head and sometimes, when no-one is looking or the family are too grief stricken to notice what’s happening just under their noses, a fist pushed hard into my face, never h enough to bruise or mark though. My pale skin, dark shadowed eyes, sharp cheek bones are what they want, what they need
I walk at the head of the procession, eyes downcast, bony wrists protrude from a frock coat that I have been growing into and then out of for years and years. A restricted diet has kept me small, extended the life of this coat beyond what anyone might consider reasonable and more importantly, has ensured the pathos of me, perfectly to scale with the coffin behind me.
It is preferred that I weep silently as we process, too much noise, drama would be seen to take away from the occasion, to draw attention to myself, so I have become expert at the noiseless tear, the grief filled eyes.
Silence.
It is a wonder that no-one ever think s to ask what I am crying over.

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About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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