What a Movie Can Do: Micro Fiction

Her husband rented the film. He had already read the book, and he wanted to see how the film stacked up against it. She didn't mind; the previews had looked interesting.

They cuddled on the couch. Ate some popcorn and chocolate. Her idea of the perfect date. Life was good.

She watched the story unfold. A young man, full of promise, seemingly cut down by his schizophrenia. It drove him from his family, and he lived on the streets. A man, a stranger, tried to help him. But the schizophrenic, paranoid and confused, got angry. He pushed the helper into the wall, slammed him, yelled at him, made the helper as scared as he felt every day.

And she crashed into her own memories. Years of growing up with a confused sister. The sister was diagnosed later as schizophrenic and bipolar, but those teenage years were uncertain. She felt the wall behind her back as her much bigger sister threw her. She was never sure what would set her sister off, but once more, again and again, she would feel the bruises develop under her pale skin from the anger.

She never showed fear. It would only make things worse. The best way to cope was to just take it. So she did.

Until one day, her sister left. Through friends and family and acquaintances she would hear about her sister. Another car wrecked. Fired again. Kicked out of some ghetto apartment for the umpteenth time. She didn't feel sorry. She felt vindicated.

But just now, watching the film, her head cradled against her husband's chest, she cried. Big, wet tears full of protein. Today she cried because her sister couldn't touch her anymore, but the film proved the downward spiral she had always suspected, and she knew her sister was hurting too.