Second Prize - Julie Barnett

The Should Have

By Julie Barnett

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The Should Have is a curious creature. Part demon, part fairy. Thin as old
bones. Brittle and black, like burnt sticks. He slinks in the shadows. Dark
alleyways, dank doorways. Places of rot and fester.

He likes to peek.

Through letterboxes.

Through cracks.

Through long, yellow fingernails.

The Should Have is the spirit of lost opportunities.

Of what SHOULD HAVE been.

I SHOULD HAVE got married today.

I SHOULD HAVE gone to the party.

I SHOULD HAVE traveled the world.

The cacophonous cries filled the damp night air. A discordant sound, off key,
unpleasant. Voices upon voices. Sharp, desperate, screaming.

It had been a quiet day. A vomiting bug. A missed fifth birthday party. A
princess dress with the tags still on. Bitter tears. Unopened presents. A mere
snack.

The houses were bright tonight. Golden with regret. Gleaming and brilliant.

The Should Have stood up straight, straining his ears. A voice. Quieter than
the others, mournful and low. He’d almost missed it. Like a distant, howling
wind.

The house stood away from the others, as if ashamed. And, oh! The light from
this one. Dazzling, brilliant white.

The Should Have emitted a low growl and licked his lips.

He found her inside. Bent and withered, crooked and crumbling.

‘I can see you.’ The woman stood up. Bones cracking.

‘A Should Have! You are here for my regrets? For my disappointments? For
the life I SHOULD HAVE led? You, Should Haves are nothing but parasites.
You feed off longing and loss and grief and death. I hope you are bloody
hungry. I carry my grief around like a pearl necklace. My life is stacks on
stacks of what ifs and what could have been. An endless kaleidoscope of
possibilities. A library of infinite IFS.’

‘Feast! Feast!’

The Should Have gorged greedily. He crammed and stuffed and filled and
feasted. But the “what ifs” kept coming. More and more poured into his mouth
and down his throat. His stomach grew swollen, large and distended.

Yet still, she fed him.

He cried out. ‘STOP.’

His skin split, his stomach popped and the last thing he saw was the old lady
smiling, before everything went black.

And Emily, on her 97th birthday, sipped a cup of sweet tea, wiped a piece of
black grizzle from her sponge cake with pink frosting and hummed happily to
herself.

END

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