The Last Bubble

I’ve spilled my bubbles, and I can’t put the liquid back inside the bottle. I shouldn’t have played with bubbles in bed. They’re meant for outdoor use. Still, I love the shimmering, iridescent globes. How they float away from me, dangle in mid-air, then pop. So fragile, yet so determined. When they finally surrender to gravity, they emit a tiny spray, like fireworks. A last-ditch effort at beauty before they’re extinguished for good.

The gloppy mess cascades onto the hardwood floor and rolls towards a corner. I never realized that a tiny plastic container could hold so much liquid. The puddle seems too large to clean up. Maybe I can use my pillowcase, then toss it into the laundry hamper. If I replace it with another pillowcase, my mother might not notice. She hates to wash clothing, usually postponing her task for as long as possible.

I slip the case from the pillow and mop at the puddle. It’s slimy and viscous, resisting all attempts at removal. Soap blobs smear my coverlet and spread towards the sheets. Meanwhile, the floor puddle gets larger. The scene reminds me of a Disney cartoon, “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” Whenever Mickey thinks he has solved a problem, dozens more arise. Pretty soon, he’s screaming for help.

I try not to panic. If I cry, my mother will come into the bedroom, and I’ll get in trouble. Mom has been snarly and unpredictable since Dad moved out of the apartment. He already has a new girlfriend. She treats me with detached contempt, like she feels sorry for me. I wish he’d come back, but I know he won’t. 

The door swings wide, and my mother towers over me, scowling. Her face is blotchy and contorted, like she was crying herself. Last year, she took me to the zoo or the beach every summer afternoon. Afterwards, we stopped for hot dogs at our favorite stand. I loved the shiny ketchup and mustard packets, the salted French fries in tiny paper sleeves, the cups of 7-up with crushed ice. All of it seems faraway now. 

Mom’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again, like a fish’s. “Who spilled these bubbles? I’ve never seen such a mess.” Her words come out ragged, as if she’s tearing them from her throat.

My mother’s fury seems monstrous, over the top. She yelled at Dad during his final weeks in our apartment. He always left, closing the door quietly behind him. Dad doesn’t like to show anger. Mom used to be calm, as well, but she no longer knows how.

I start to tremble uncontrollably. Mom never directs such intense rage towards me, only towards Dad. I need to appease her before it’s too late. My eyes scan the room for an alibi, finally landing on Patches, my cat. 

“He did it. I couldn’t stop him.”

Mom glares at the cat, then advances towards me. Patches slumbers on a cushion, unaware of the drama. He looks like he hasn’t moved for quite some time. Mom comes so close that I can smell the cigarettes on her breath. “I’m going to ask you again. Who spilled those bubbles?”

If I repeat my lie, perhaps she’ll believe it the second time. A more detailed explanation might help. “The cat. He was walking across my bed.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from the opposite side of the room.

My mother’s right arm swings backwards, and her palm slams against my cheek, almost knocking me to the floor. The sudden impact is both shocking and humiliating. Mom and Dad don’t believe in hitting. I always feel sorry for other kids when their parents spank them in front of me.

I burst into tears. Soon, I’m crying so hard that I can barely see my mother. Though Mom’s form appears blurry, rage still emanates from her like radiator steam. “Try again,” she screams. “Who spilled the bubbles? I don’t have all day.”

Only the truth will appease my mother. She wants nothing less than a full confession. Otherwise, she might keep slapping me until she’s too exhausted to continue. I take a deep breath to quell my sobs. “It was me. I did it. I’m sorry, Mom.”

As if by magic, my mother backs away. She wheels around and heads for the door. “That’s more like it,” she snaps. “Never lie to me again. Now, clean up that mess.”

The door slams, and I’m alone again, except for Patches. I sniffle a couple of times and mop the tears from my eyes. My face still stings from the slap. Mom has probably returned to her nightly ritual of watching reruns on our black and white television. She’s reclining on the couch with an overflowing ashtray and a can of malt liquor.

The cat rises, stretches, and gives me a baleful look, like he’s condemning me for throwing him under the bus. He sinks back into the cushion and returns to his nap. Seconds later, he emits a whimpering noise. Maybe he’s chasing mice in his sleep.

I scoop up the bubble container, unscrew the plastic lid, and peer inside. A minute amount of foamy residue still clings to the bottom. It’s barely enough for a couple of bubbles. Perhaps I should save the remnants for later, when I go outside again. I’ll stand in the courtyard and send a bubble towards Dad’s new apartment. If I blow hard enough, perhaps it will travel across Chicago and hit his window. He’ll know that I still love him, even if he doesn’t love me back.

Leah Mueller's work is published or forthcoming in Rattle, A Certain Age, Writers Resist, Beach Chair Press, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, New Flash Fiction Review, Does It Have Pockets, Outlook Springs, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has received several nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. One of her short stories appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her fourteenth book, "A Pretty Good Disaster" was published by Alien Buddha Press in 2025. Check out more of her work at substack.com/@leahsnapdragon.