Patient Zero Flash Fiction

Is it even possible to listen to Taylor Swift without conjuring up whole stories? I adore the four songs on her Encore; there is so much imagery in the lyrics and the intsrument choices further deepen the narratives. Love love love. This flash fiction is inspired by the thoughts and emotions that ran through my mind on that first listen to Patient Zero.

I play the violin with the windows open now. When I get something wrong, the whole courtyard gets to hear it. A man opposite sometimes claps; though last weekend he shut his window halfway through, which was fair considering I was rather ambitious after a generous second pour.

You would have laughed. I remember how you laughed with your whole face.

In the photograph lighting up my screen, you’ve learned to smile with your mouth shut. He’s beside you, of course. His hand rests on your shoulder, where everyone can see how supportive he’s being.

I recognise the restaurant. He took me there after my first competition, ordered for the table, told everyone around us what I’d won. I already knew my part.

I enlarge your photograph to check your shoulders. Up around your ears. Mine still do that when I hear tyres on gravel. Fucking ridiculous.

He bought my violin the Christmas after he married Mum. My stomach twists when I recall how gently he lifted it out. I loved him so much that morning I felt guilty about my actual father.

Eventually I got good enough to make him interesting at parties. He’d stand beside me while people admired what we’d achieved, his thumb moving over the back of my neck whenever I started talking.

You know that thumb. I wish you didn’t.

For years, I thought I was Patient Zero. That I had become rotten and spread throughout the house. Mum developed headaches. Meals went quiet. He had to sit in the car before coming inside, gathering the strength to live with my potential.

When I left, I took the violin because I knew what it cost. I carried it through three house shares and never failed to take up more room than it should.

The first time I opened the case again, I had my own place. Whisky on the mantelpiece. Nobody due home. I was awful, and I laughed so hard I had to sit down.

There’s a passage I’ve been getting wrong for months. I fucking love it.

In your caption, you’ve thanked him for everything.

I scroll back until I find the photograph from the seawall. You’re eating chips, laughing at the gulls. He rang twice while we were there. I wish I’d brought you home with me. I remember how you folded in on yourself as I drove you back.

I start a message, then delete it and send you the photograph.

Your eighteenth is in my calendar. I’ve put money aside for somewhere he’s never taken either of us. We can order our own fucking food. Have a drink. Find out what makes you laugh these days.

I haven’t told you about the space I’ve made in the wardrobe. You can bring whatever you’re still carrying. You might only want an evening out, and I’m learning how to offer something without deciding what you owe me for it.

But when you’re ready, I’ll be waiting in the car. I'll handle the cost.