The Death of You
by Mileva Anastasiadou
April 5, 2026 | Flash Fiction | Confused
came at a time, when I had barely adapted to my new role after you got sick, and I hated the role of cleaning and cooking for you but I hated more existing without you. The doctor asked why I didn’t like the role in the first place, because caring for others is the ultimate goal, and I said it was exhausting, just caring and caring and caring, and he raised his glasses and he stared like I let him down. You just can’t do only this, I told him, and he looked away, he seemed confused, because that was also his job, only he went home and he had fun and traveled and rested too. He bowed his head and admitted defeat, but then raised his eyebrows and he said, you must be strong now, as if that was an option, because if it was up to me, I wouldn’t be strong, I would be crying and crying and crying until my tears run out, but I have a job to do and bills to pay. He shrugged like saying, I can’t help much with that, because he knew I should be crying and crying and crying, but also that I couldn’t, and he kept his chin on his hands for a couple of seconds, and he pondered, before he took his pen and started writing. He then handed me the prescription of a few collective nouns, the fewer
Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, from Athens, Greece and the author of “We Fade With Time” and “Christmas People” by Alien Buddha Press. Her work has been selected for the Best Microfiction anthology and Wigleaf Top 50. She’s the flash fiction editor of Blood+Honey and the Argyle journal.
the better, he told me, but what he meant was, the more extraordinary the better. I rose and grabbed the prescription and cried a little, because I wanted to mourn, but I had to sacrifice myself again, and I saw through him, I saw his trick and what he was trying to do, because he meant well and wanted to show me how the collective is better and stronger and more magical than alone, but in reality he only expected one more sacrifice, and I told him how sad I found it, how the collective isn’t about lonely sacrifices and Messiahs that will save the crowds, the collective is about saving each other in turns. I went home to have a meltdown on my own, before going to bed early for another day at work, where I should be strong and composed and calm like nothing ever happened, as if I wasn’t in the middle of a huge chaos, as if life went on for me like for everyone else, because there was no one in sight that would do the caring for me, and before I slept, I read the prescription and embraced the wonder of collective nouns, I read about kaleidoscopes and murders, and butterflies and crows, and I can’t help but admit that a conspiracy of ravens is way more intriguing than a raven alone, and I listened to songs and cried because those love songs transformed and turned into laments and I embraced change and reinvented myself, a lamentation of dead swans is more powerful than a swan alone, and I thought I’m not a sellout if I only rebrand myself to myself, but I am, because I performed all the time and when I woke up to the death of you and a death of vultures looming over my head, your spirit remained inside me, and when I unmasked, I was nobody.
Beautiful|!