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Flash Fiction: Eight

Flash Fiction: Eight

If eight is the number of new beginnings, then today is the perfect day for me to move into my new apartment. It is the 8th day in August and I am determined to start afresh in not just a new home, but a new city.

Leaving behind everything London has to offer, I have just received the keys to a cute studio apartment in the heart of Milton Keyes. I actually did a happy jig in the middle of the estate agent’s office, much to their amusement.

My car is stuffed with a wide variety of suitcases and cardboard boxes as I drive to the apartment block. I’m super proud of myself. Not because this is a big move I’ve taken on single-handedly. Oh no, not in the least.

I’m proud of the fact that none of the sentimental memorabilia of my ex-boyfriend have made the cut. I am done with mooning over concert ticket stubs and empty bottles of aftershave. Gone were the stacks of notepads with doodles of his name and mine linked with squiggly hearts – Dan ♡ Cate forever…  ♡ Mrs Cate Cooper xxx

I cringe as I recall how many teary voicemail messages I left on his cell. It had taken me six whole months to realise I’d been nicknamed Cate the Desperate by his friends. A further three months before I was notified that a harassment case had been filed against me at the local police. That was my light bulb moment. I had to get out of London and now I’ve finally done it.

Beep-beep!

The car behind me honks his horn impatiently and I quickly change gear to move through the traffic lights.

Milton Keyes is a new start in several ways. My MBA in Cranfield University begins next month. The intensive course is bound to take my mind off Dan, while the city would give me a much needed new circle of friends.

I slowly ease my car into the parking lot of the apartment block. My eyes widen as I realise I have been allocated the 8th bay.

“Well, well!” I chuckle to myself.

A crisp breeze tugs at my jacket as I trudge into the building foyer. The hall is lined with grey steel letter boxes. One for each apartment. My Samsonite suitcase whirrs loudly as it rolls across the tiled floor.

I spot a young couple picking up their post from their letter box. A black eight is printed boldly on theirs. This must be my lucky day. I smile widely as they turn to face me.

My smile stays frozen as I stare into the horrified eyes of Daniel Cooper and I hear his whispered words,

“I’m calling the police,”



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