no, you don’t; or minerva’s gaze

by J. Agombar

You wake with a start to the sound of the recycling lorry tipping glass into itself down the street. Drenched in sweat. You check the clock beside you. 10:15. Shit. Alarm was set for seven. Didn’t go off. It’s her. She’s screwing with you again. Ignore it.

“That’s karma, you know,” her voice says.

“No, you don’t. Fuck you,” you voice angrily into the cold room. So cold you can see your own breath meander upwards.

Why is it cold in July? Oh …you remember. It’s only cold in here, and it reflects your ‘frosted heart’ as she previously stated.

You sit up on the side of the bed and rub your face slowly with both hands, exhausted. Your bones feel brittle and ache. You take a deep breath before glancing at the framed picture of her on the chest of drawers. It stands again, facing you, even though you recall facing it downward. Your wife; ex-wife. She smiles sweetly back at you. It used to conjure memories of good times, mad loving times where you’d find fun places to go with street food and vibrant music. Now it signifies that the workplace is a welcome escape from the house (when you actually hold a job). Your stomach curdles with anxiety, and the silence is the loudest torment second only to her voice.

She is all done up in the photo. Taken by her secret photographer boyfriend at the restaurant. Prick. You hate it, but you must keep it to maintain the lie. It’s monochrome, but the smile still gleams somehow. The small evil-eye necklace that you bought her in Rome glints in the shot. After much crazed research, you’re convinced it’s the source of the sway she holds over you now. You’d read that Minerva’s gaze symbolised protection against malevolent forces and reflected consequences upon those with harmful intent. A goddess of wisdom, medicine, and war. She wages her war solely upon you now. Revenge.

Part of you wished you’d knew this before buying the damned thing. Yet you still have just enough stones to soak that notion in superstitious waters. Stubbornness. You stand, walk toward the photo. Face it downward.

“Really?” she says. “You know that never ends well.”

You scowl into nothing as you fight the fear of consequences. There’s a brief pause.

“You look thinner these days,” she says.

You glance towards the full-length mirror. Dark rings below your eyes. Tired. Slightly hunched frame. She’s right. Her figure reflects behind you as she stands in the doorway. She wears the black silk camisole she wore on that final night. The blood stains her neck and ribs exactly like you inflicted.

“Then again, so am I,” she says before her appearance flickers to a skeletal, decaying figure.

You screw up your lips and try to resist. You can’t. You snap your head around. She’s gone. Of course she is. Weak. It’s always the same. Every time. Fool.

Playful yet haunting laughter echoes throughout the room and the hallway beyond.

“No, you don’t. Fuck you!” you voice.

You grab a towel from the radiator to wipe the sweat from your brow and take it with you to the shower. You bask in its stream for a while and focus on the ocean-coloured tiled wall in order to not acknowledge any pending scene akin to a horror movie. Knife behind the shower curtain? REDRUM written in the steamy mirror? Blood streaming from the taps? No. She wouldn’t be so cliché. She’ll torture you in less obvious, but more meaningful ways.

You return to the bedroom wrapped in the towel. You find the picture frame faces you once more. That smile still chills the blood coursing through your veins occasionally. The dread has worn off over the three months since you disposed of her. It’s now an irritation; a fucking hinderance.

“I got your outfit ready,” her voice comes in ethereal wavering tones throughout the room.

She means for the interview you’re about to be late for. Your eyes turn toward the wardrobe. You pace toward it and fling it open. A tattered suit hangs there. It’s been cut with scissors vertically on each garment. You gasp. It looks like blood stains the white shirt. You open the jacket to reveal its actually lipstick. Her lipstick. Words are scrawled on it: NO, YOU DON’T.

Your blood chills again initially, but quickly boils. You slam the wardrobe door, pace back across the room, pick up the framed photo and launch it at the wall. Glass smashes.

“FUCK YOU!”

You clench your fists and push against the window frame in a brief spell of maniacal rage. You question if you’ll ever be rid of her. Your angered reverie is broken by the chime of the doorbell. You blink in confusion and quickly slip on some casual clothes. The doorbell chimes again. You stagger down the stairs. Wary.

You open the door. A woman stands there. Cargo trousers. Hi-viz stripes. Kind face. Blonde hair tied back.

“Hi. This fell out of your recycling bag. Thought it might be important to you?” she says sweetly.

She holds up a pendant with a gloved hand. Your heart skips with dread. You take it hesitantly.

“Thank you,” you strain.

She smiles and leaves. Follows bin lorry.

You close the door and open your palm. Minerva’s eye stares back at you. Your wavering breath mists up in front of your face. A voice whispers in your ear as you close your eyes in defeat.

“No…

you…

don’t.”

Photo of J. Agombar

BIO: J. Agombar resides near the treacherous waters of Southend-On-Sea, Essex, UK where visions of the speculative, criminal, and supernatural have taken over his mind (usually alongside a bottle of whisky). He holds a BA Hons in Humanities where the creative writing module inspired his first published work with Luna Press. He is a fan of the short story and inspired by classic authors such as Richard Matheson, Ray Bradbury, and H.P Lovecraft. His work has been printed with over twenty publishers to date including two short story collections of his own. His third collection is well underway and should release in 2026.