Flash Fiction: Leftovers

I rose from the floor, a skinny and plain afterbirth.

I found Sean in his apartment, and he was utterly confused when I broke down and cried.

I told him of Jekyll’s elixir. That I was a fool. That the beautiful woman he’d pined for and thought was my roommate, was — and now wasn’t — me.

In tears I speak of last night, of how I divided like a cell. Of how my superior self arose, and at last liberated from her weaknesses, left for Cancún.

Of how I was just the worthless, leftover remains she’d rejected.

“No,” he said. “You’re all the parts I loved.”

He held me.

I was whole.

I never felt worthless again.

 

 

 

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