David

A piece of flash fiction I wrote re: a writing prompt on writersworld.tumblr.com.

I think his name was David.

I mean, it was David when I borrowed a pencil from him when I was eight. But it was never David when the teacher called his name in registration every morning; she never even called for a David. But he was still there, every day, in the back of the class; rocking on his chair.

I’m sure his name was David when he helped me back up after some big kids knocked me down playing hockey when we were fourteen. But it wasn’t David when the rector came calling for him to visit his office for smoking outside the Home Economics department at sixteen.

I’m almost certain his name was David when we discovered we were on the same university course and would be sharing all the same classes. But at twenty-one, even the university’s tutors could never get his name right either - must be an educator thing.

Yeah, his name was definitely David when we were driving thirty over the speed limit on the motorway, carefree and intoxicated, and his name was still David when the car collided with the barriers. He was David when the car burst into flames. He was David when they whisked him away in the ambulance - and I made sure the paramedics knew this.

His name should have still been David in the hospital when the doctors were rushing about with IV bags in hands and grim expressions on faces. But they never listened to me. They found a card in his trouser pocket with someone else’s name on it and they stuck by that.

He was David when the nurse came to ask me to wait for her in the waiting room.

He was still David even when his heart stopped beating.

But the obituary called him Shelley and kept referring to him as ‘her’ and ‘she’. There wasn’t even an obituary for David. The teachers always called for Shelley Roberts but never David Roberts. The rector wanted to chide Shelley for smoking at her age �" and on the school grounds! �" but David was never punished.

And his parents kept wailing for their Dear Shelley at David’s funeral and I couldn’t help but think how inconsiderate that was �" especially from them.

Even in death ignorance is inescapable.

Shelley who? I know his name was David; he told me so.

Reviews

[A. Amos]

this is one of most daring & stylish piece of writing, I have to come back to read more of your work.