The Dark Side
A Flash Fiction by Madeleine Armstrong
When Star Wars was released, Darth Vader visited our local video shop. Mum said he was the real deal, but Dad said there was no way Darth Vader would come to our two-bob shithole of a town. So Dad wasn’t with us as we trooped down the high street – anyway, he had business to attend to, which meant the pub.
I pulled my little brother Davey along, past Woolies and Marks & Sparks, desperate not to be late. We couldn’t afford to see Star Wars at the pictures but I knew Darth Vader, all metal and malice. The pavement outside the video shop was already crammed and I slipped Davey’s hand, leaving him with Mum as I jostled into the crowd, trying to get as close as possible to the red rope separating us from the baddest man in the galaxy.
Then I heard that rasp. That wheeze. That heavy stomp. I craned up on tiptoes, finding the gaps between heads, and caught a glimpse of shining onyx, a swish of cloak. Then he disappeared into the shop. I stared open-mouthed, more impressed than if an elephant had trundled down the high street.
That evening, with no official Star Wars action figures to play with, Davey and I improvised. Beaten-up toy cars, cadged from older cousins, were X-wings and the Millennium Falcon. We skidded them across the kitchen lino until Mum shouted at us to shut up and eat our tea.
Long past lights out we lay awake, reliving every step Darth Vader had taken, making blasters of our fingers and pew, pew, pew noises as we pretended to shoot each other. The shadows of our hands flickered on the wall. Join the dark side, I said in my deepest, scariest voice. In the bed opposite, separated from mine by a foot of manky carpet, Davey giggled.
Suddenly, the front door slammed open.
I held my breath. That noise meant only one thing: Dad was home.
I pulled up the covers and stared at the ceiling, not daring to look at Davey.
The house was silent. Maybe it was one of those nights when he was so drunk he passed out on the couch.
But then he roared Gerrrofffff meee, and I cringed. It was going to be one of those nights.
After that came other noises, ones I knew well. Mum’s voice, high and panicked. Panting. Swearing. Fists hitting flesh.
Next: footsteps on the stairs. Thump. Thump. Thump. Even heavier than Darth Vader’s. For a moment I imagined him, black and sleek, stalking the corridors of a gleaming spaceship. But I knew if I crept over to the door and looked through the crack, there’d be no uniform or helmet, just faded bellbottom jeans and that red jumper with the ragged sleeves.
I didn’t look. Didn’t dare. Hoped that maybe if I kept lying there, dead still, those terrible footsteps would pass straight by, just like Darth Vader’s.
Author: Madeleine is a journalist covering the pharma industry. She won the Hammond House international short story prize in 2023, and has had stories published by Farnham Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, LISP, The Hooghly Review and WestWord. She lives in south-east London with her husband, son and two cats.