I just realized it's called Flash Fiction because often, the story come to a writer as a flash, a glimmer, a lightening bolt of an image or an idea, with only the after image to imply the back story or the forward movement. Yet, it's enough to compel, to reveal, to intrigue.
From his tenth floor window, Gil stared across the alley, hoping to spy on her. The woman across the way often undressed before her windows, shades forgotten. Tonight her windows remained covered but backlit by bright lights. Two shadows danced across the ersatz screen. She had company.
Gil slammed his fist against his sill, feeling betrayed, offended that she didn't look out and NOTICE him. A tiny female figure grew large before it shrunk back to human size. Gil assumed his fantasy neighbor had walked across the room to pose for him. Maybe she was aware. Of his eyes. His presence. His need. He pulled a chair to his window.
Gil leaned on his sill, lips parted, unaware of his shallow, panting breaths. A male figure joined the woman across the alley. He reached for the female, pulled her into an embrace. Gil watched as her lithe form bent backwards, one arm extended over her head, a tableau of surrender. The man's shadow arm reached behind his back as his head lowered; two human shapes merging into one bulbous shadow. Gil seethed. Gil desired.
The arm shadow behind the man flitted down. The shade snapped open. Gil saw a room behind the pair; simple, stark. A bare wall. Two floor lamps, bright sentinels, each providing six different bulbs set at different angles. A man plunged the woman's bent form into a dip.
The man raised his arm again, the light behind casting him as an outline rather than a three-dimensional form. A knife's edge glinted. Gil held his breath. Light sparks arced into the chasm between their apartments.
He stood, kicked his chair aside, horrified, wanting to scream, to project his voice and warn the woman across the alley.
His arms trembled, his voice constricted. Gil didn't want to warn; he wanted to remain silent. His dread fascination elicited gooseflesh on his arms, a shiver down his spine, a throbbing in his loins. One part of his brain screamed, "NOOOOO!" as a smaller, more compelling voice inside his head whispered watch.
The shimmering blade plunged into the female bosom, a small hill conquered by a shadow, marked by a handle in the surreal outline tableau.
Gil shoved one wrist into this open mouth, stifling grunts, giving his teeth something to bite, squelching the scream worrying his vocal chords. His other hand crept to his jeans; fingers slithered to his zipper, stretched the slit into a gap; relieved the throbbing with feathery strokes.
Wide-eyed and moaning, Gil savored the pleasure, understood the truth. He could never reveal what he had witnessed; never. Her death would remain his until his grave. But until then, he would own her in a way he never could have owned her in life. He closed his eyes, watched the knife's arc, heard her catch her breath, whisper his name, beg for his mercy. Yes, he would replay that secret, treasure it, coddle it, embellish it until she became lost within him.