A Murder of Boobs: A flash fiction story
(not THAT kind of flash fiction 😉)
Author’s note: I recently had my first mammogram. From a medical perspective, I’m told the screening and follow-up were routine. From my perspective, it was a needlessly terrifying experience that was neither trauma-informed nor patient-centered (everything came back fine in the end, thankfully). To help me process the rage, anxiety, and terror I felt during this time, I wrote a flash fiction piece about “murder boobs.” I’ve decided to share it here because stories are healing, shared experiences are powerful, and I have a feeling that many people with boobs (and people who love people with boobs) will relate.
Content warning: the following fictional story contains brief references to blood, serious illness, fear of death, and off-page violence.
A Murder of Boobs
A man is dead, and my boobs have killed him.
I always knew they were dangerous. When I was 13, their mere existence threatened the virtue of every male in a 50-yard radius — marriages and prospects derailed in a single bounce. Other girls backed away when I approached, arms crossed to protect their dainty A cups from the scourge of my burgeoning bosom.
Murder was inevitable.
—
23 days earlier…
I’m getting my first mammogram. The technician positions my boob on the plate, presses a button, and tells me to hold my breath. The machine squeezes. My flesh yields. And there in the breathless quiet, a voice whispers in my head: murder.
The tech repositions my boob, jerks her hand back with a yelp. Blood drips from her fingers.
“Goodness, how did that happen?” she laughs. She bandages her hand, finishes the mammogram, and sends me on my way.
—
Two days later…
My phone rings. The caller’s voice is cheery, bright sunshine with a side of doom: "We saw an abnormality on your mammogram and need to schedule more imaging. Are you available in three weeks?”
My stomach oozes to my toes. This is it, I think. My boobs are betraying me like I always knew they would.
“What did they find?” I manage to rasp.
The nurse ticks off a bunch of scary-sounding words — “distortion,” “asymmetry,” “suspicious.”
Murder, growls the voice in my head.
Heat lances through my boobs, arcs down my arm like a bolt of lightning. The phone in my hand grows hot. I hear a clatter, a muffled cry, and the other line goes dead.
Ugh, what’s that smell? I look down and realize I’ve burned a hole through my bra.
—
Three weeks later…
I’m alone in the exam room, and I’m dying. I must be dying. Why else would this be taking so long? I pull the hospital gown around me and try to breathe.
The voice in my head is relentless. I ruined two more bras last week and almost set my boss’s desk on fire. He deserved it. Jerk.
A knock, and the radiologist comes in. Finally.
“Your diagnostic murdergram revealed asymmetric murder and suspicious murderfication in both breasts,” he says.
Wait, what?
“You need a double murderectomy, followed by six months of murder therapy to ensure the murder doesn’t return. I’m also prescribing a murderdepressant—”
He’s still talking, but my vision’s gone red. A swarm of hornets in my ears — buzzing, buzzing. My boobs are on fire. Heat’s rising in my chest, an explosion I can’t contain.
I don’t want to contain it.
—
15 minutes later…
I exit the clinic, and a weight lifts from my shoulders. I don’t know why I was so anxious. It’s just like they say — most mammogram callbacks end in relief.
I smile at the security guard on my way out, folding my hands to hide the blood.
Outside, a crow lands at my feet. A second. A third. They caw softly — like recognizing like.
Murder, croons the voice, gentle as a lover. Murder.
MURRRRRDERRRRR.
I hope you enjoyed this story. If you feel moved to share one of your own in the comments (fictional, semi-fictional, or factual), please do!
That first line! What a way to begin. Loved it.
Haha, "murderdepressant."