Sticks and stones might break your bones, but words will surely kill me

By Olivia Hibbitt

The soup is already cold. The comforting wisps of steam stopped rising a while ago. All that is left are opaque globs of fat that wobble among clumps of overcooked carrots and grey meat.

‘… for fucks sake, what’s the issue now? Of course, it’s not bloody good enough for Dr Fancy. How did you get so fussy, I would never…’

It had started earlier than usual this time. Most Sunday lunches would be pleasant through the main course. Before Dad drunk the third glass of wine and my dislike of desserts kicked Mum off. But today I’d made a mistake. It was my fault. I should have known the slinky black top was wrong, but when Steve told me I looked great I let it go to my head. I forgot who I was seeing. Forgot the rules. Fade into the background. Don’t stand out. Don’t talk too loudly. Don’t look too good. Just, don’t.

The last words Steve said to me before I walked out of our front door were “your family love you”. Steve doesn’t understand. 

‘… for the best she doesn’t eat that. I don’t understand how you can do so much exercise and still look like that. It’s …’

The words patter against my skin like droplets of acid. The hot stinging quickly penetrating deep into my bones and coalescing into a roiling ball of lava somewhere near the base of my spine.

‘… really, is this how you’re doing your hair? What colour is that? Jessica, give your sister some advice, it’s embarrassing…’

The droplets become a tide surging through my body. My breath catches as a whisp of smoke rises from my hand. 

Something is wrong. 

Something is happening. 

The spoon clatters from my numbing fingers into the soup. Partially congealed liquid sprays across the pristine table cloth. 

‘… oh for heavens sake, why are you such a…’

‘… why can’t you be more like…’

‘… everything has to be a fucking drama with you…’

The ball of lava in my spine is expanding. Each word feeds the hungry flames and I am being seared from the inside. The table in front of me shrinks. I crane my neck to see, but my neck is gone, my body is gone. I rise, floating on the warming currents to bob against the ceiling. I turn and watch the scene below unfold. 

The family continue to hurl words. They leave their mouths transforming into fireballs consuming the body that used to be mine until it is a conflagration. The table cloth, with its globules of soup, begins to char. The flames start as tiny rivulets spreading to consume everything they touch. The family doesn’t notice when the flames begin to lick at their arms. Their words become sharper, crueller, they are gouts of flame erupting from their mouths as their bodies are consumed leaving dust and ashes.

The fire dies slowly, the crackles from the searing flesh and bone dissipate into the sluggish air of a Sunday afternoon. All that is left in their wake is silence.

About the Author

Liv Hibbitt lives on the Northern Beaches of Sydney where she spends her spare time writing speculative fiction for children and adults.

She is an emerging writer who has written a middle grade novel about aliens and promises she’s almost finished the middle-grade fantasy, horror set during the gold rush in Arrowtown, Aotearoa. 

Liv’s not sure why all her stories end up kind of dark, one day she’ll get that seen to!