Olivia Sawatzki
Short Fiction
Every morning I wished Linda was dead and today she finally was. I found the address in the paper, under her headshot, the same one she used for years – blurry, outdated, it made her look younger but did nothing for her eyes–I knew she was bullied as a child for how they bulged, that they called her “frog eyes,” and this was of course, a private treasure.
I drove there and forgot to turn the radio on, I was so jittery. My dress didn’t have pockets so the folded tissue was in my coat. The funeral was not very fancy for what I knew her husband could afford. The carpet had spots and the curtains were very dated. Her husband was heavier than I remembered. The stepson with the goggle-like glasses, the one she called a picky eater, was sitting under a chair, steering a toy car in figure eights around his father’s feet, completely ignored. A few executives were there, none greeted me. Daria did not even ask how I was or say hello, just that she was very surprised to see me, and only after I said hello to her first.
When I got to the body I did not feel satisfied. It looked too relaxed. I had not thought it through; people behind me would notice if I got close. I lingered by the casket for a while after that, thinking. Her husband looked at me a few times and I lost my nerve–I had lied when I shook his hand and I thought her jaw might be bolted shut anyway. Daria was whispering something to him. She stood with a pretty woman, brunette also, younger than me, probably the new assistant–she had her hand on the woman’s back. Then I felt a twitch in my pocket, so surprising I yelped, and everyone noticed. I was completely alone in the corner of the room and the only one wearing a coat. After that Daria stomped towards me in her clogs, I could see in her eyes she would grab my elbow and chastise me. I looked at the corpse again and I left.
When I opened the folded tissue the cockroach squirmed, it was alive after all. I let it fall to the pavement and crushed it with my heel before it could run, crushed it again to feel it crunch, crushed it a third time for fun. The third time was what killed it because I felt the tiny shock of its life exiting its little skeleton, and shattering with exquisite finality; nowhere to go but soak into the sole of my boot. Daria came outside–she looked so very ugly then, in her gray trousers, frown lines criss-crossing over her thin mouth. She looked like a cockroach herself. I told her I wanted to choke her until she died and that I would, if she took another step towards me, and then I drove the whole way home without the radio on.
Olivia Sawatzki is a 26-year-old Los Angeles-based comedian and writer. She is interested in writing about big ugly feelings.
Photo Credit: Vincenzo Cohen (birth name, Vincenzo Curcio) is an Italian multidisciplinary artist and writer. He was born in Zurich, Switzerland. In 2002 he graduated in Painting from Fine Arts Academy and in 2005 he held his first Solo Exhibition. In 2007 he achieved the degree in Archaeological Sciences from the “La Sapienza” University in Rome. His production ranges from figurative arts to writing and consists in reworking of life and travel experiences by exploring different social themes. As a multifaceted artist his production is the result of a continuous process of historical-scientific research addressed to the representation of cultural and naturalistic content.
L'Esprit Literary Review 