Chlorine

17

Cl

[Ne]3s²3p⁵

Chlorine

Entry for the 2016 Hemingway short story contest

“There is nothing to writing.

All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.”

—Ernest Hemingway

“You still going to do it?” Janie asked.

“It’s my final chance. Today’s my last day as a tour guide. I’m going to miss working here at the Hemingway House.” Addison referred to the promise she’d made on her first day on the job, nearly ten years ago.

“Go for it. All the Hemingway House tour guides swear the same oath. What are they going to do? Fire you?” Laughing, Janie walked away.

Standing by the pool house, Addison stared at the enormous salt water pool, courtesy of Hemingway’s second wife, Pauline.

A soft coat of fur brushed Addison’s calf. Liz Taylor, a beautiful, black, six-toed cat rubbed against her. Kneeling, Addison scratched her favorite feline’s cheek and was rewarded with a loud purr. “I’m going to miss you, Liz Taylor.”

The purring kitty, who loved lounging by the pool, rolled onto her back, her subtle hint for ‘rub my belly.’

Obliging, Addison gave the sweet kitty one last belly rub. “I’ll come back to visit you, I promise.” But she wondered if she’d be allowed back here, especially after what she’d vowed to do on her last day of work.

Hiding on the property, Addison waited for everyone to leave. Panic arose in her chest. Anxiety kicked in. Was she really going to do this? Swimming in Hemingway’s pool was strictly forbidden.

The humid air made the pool beckon her. Stripping off her clothes, Addison stood at the deep end opposite the pool house. This is it. You can do this. Just one lap across and no one will ever know.

Working up her courage, Addison studied the perimeter. Everyone’s gone. Here it goes.

She dove naked into the deep end of the pool. The soft saline water enveloped her body in a cocoon of euphoria. Keeping her eyes open, she held her breath and swam the length of the pool under water. I can’t believe I’m swimming in Ernest Hemingway’s pool. This is awesome. Why did I wait ten years to do this? Oh yeah, because I didn’t want to get fired from this coveted job in Key West.

She climbed out of the pool, and her eyes stung. She tried opening them, but she couldn’t see. Damn chlorine! She stumbled to get her soaked body away from the scene of the crime. Where were her clothes? Crap, back at the deep end. I can make it there without seeing. I know every inch of this property. I just need to watch out for the urinal from the old Sloppy Joes. Addison recalled the story she’d recited to tourists. Hemingway had brought the old urinal to his home when Sloppy Joes moved to Duval street in the 1930s. Now it was a water feature where the cats drank.

Stumbling, she tripped on the stone urinal and fell forward. Her head hit something hard. Warm blood oozed from her forehead. The last thing she remembered was Liz Taylor nudging her hand, followed by a sad “Meow.”

That’s where they discovered Addison’s dead body the next morning.