What if the truth about you is the one thing you can’t bear to know?
First Line:
Her name was the first thing she couldn’t remember—and the last thing she wanted to find.
Paragraph:
The mirror in the motel bathroom reflected a stranger. Pale skin. A faint scar above the right eyebrow. Eyes that seemed to search for something and recoil from it at the same time. She’d woken three hours ago on the floor, head pounding, with a bloodstained note in her pocket that read: Don’t trust him. No name. No explanation. The scent of gunpowder clung to her clothes, and the faint hum of tires outside told her she was not far from a highway. Whoever she was, someone wanted her erased—or maybe she’d erased herself. Her hands trembled as she unfolded a second scrap of paper she’d found in her shoe: You know why. She didn’t. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. But the dread in her chest whispered that the truth wasn’t hiding from her. She was hiding from it. And now, someone was coming up the stairs.
Three Questions for Flash Fiction Inspiration:
- What truth about her past would make her fear remembering?
- Who is “him,” and why can’t she trust him?
- Is she running from a killer—or from herself?
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