Who's There?

This short story includes uses of language, violence, gore, and suggested mental health/suicide triggers.

A shadow loomed over me. Shit! My legs shook. It was too late. Snatching up the knife, I sped out of the room. I pressed my hand to the crumbling wall. “Clllaaarrraaaa,” The voice sent shivers up my spine, my eyes widening. I panicked and shoved the switchblade into my left boot. Not a good idea. I swallowed down the pain of the sharp jab of the blade cutting into my ankle, through my paper-thin socks. I turned around slowly. The shadow was gone. Without a moment’s hesitation, I yanked the knife out of my swelling ankle and made a run for it, which was difficult to do on a wounded ankle.  “Clllaaarrraaa,” The voice was louder. Closer. And somehow also quieter. “WHO’S THERE?” I cried, my voice cracking. Tears I didn’t know I held inside me were toppling over the brim of my eyes, streaming down my face. What have I done? WHAT HAVE I DONE?! I crumbled onto the floor, untying my left boot. A loud smack sounded as I threw it, hitting the apartment wall. “Clllaaarrraaa,” The voice said again, this time almost like a question. “What do you want from me?!” I wailed to no response. I’m going crazy. I must be, I’ve finally lost it, I thought. Ten million thoughts running through my head. And I laughed. Tears still running down my cheeks, dampening my old t-shirt, I laughed. I’m doomed anyways, what am I running from? They should be scared of me. They should be terrified. I popped open the knife, my right hand holding it out in front of me. I stood up and stepped over the broken glass and old cigarette butts, now unbothered treading on my cut and exposed foot. “I know you’re here,” I sang. I could hear light movement. Coming from the bathroom. The bathroom I just killed my daughter in. I burst in the door, slashing the knife in front of me. “You shouldn’t be here,” The voice whispered. It was standing in the middle of the pooled blood in the bathtub. “Don’t test me,” I hissed, staring into its dull eyes. “You saw what I did to her,” I smiled, cocking my head and pointing the tip of the blade into the center of its chest. “No,” it responded. “You shouldn’t be here,” it repeated. Its left hand whipped out snatching the switchblade and throwing it upwards, stabbing the knife deep into the low ceiling. “Get out,” It cautioned. I’m not scared. I’m not scared. I’m not scared. “Who are you,” I managed to ask. “You,” it responded. What the fuck kind of response is that?! This… thing is NOT me. “No,” I stated firmly, straitening my back and straining to grab the switchblade. “Yes,” it disagreed. I stopped reaching and stared it straight in the eyes. “Ok. Then who am I?” I asked, intrigued. “We are Clara Hudson. Average American girl who grew up in West Texas. We had a loving mom. We have a dad. We had two little sisters and one older brother. We wanted to be a novelist. We wanted to start a family. We had a boyfriend. We had a daughter. Her name was Katherine, after our mother. She was fourteen years old. The same age you were when you stole your dad’s gun to-” 

“Stop,” I warned it. “Stop it. Say one more word and you’re dead,”

The switchblade was now sitting comfortably in my palm again. “Our ankle is hurt. We should fix it,” it pointed out after a moment's silence.

“WHAT ‘WE’?! THERE IS NO WE. There is just ME,” I panted. The tears revived.

“We left the first aid kit on the kitchen floor. Remember when Katie scraped her knee when she was learning how to ride a bike? We used the same kit. Brings up some memories, huh?” it ventured. 

“You have two minutes to be out of here. Not a word about this,” I began.

“Oh, I’m afraid not,” it replied smugly.

“Why not?” I gritted my teeth.

“You are here. I am you. Unless you leave, I am stuck here. Being us,” It smiled, showing its gleaming teeth for the first time.

“You bitch!" I began, "JUST LET IT GO AND GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! I AM NOT YOU. YOU ARE NOT ME.” I shrieked. And then I opened my eyes. I was on the floor in the bathroom. The bathroom that moments ago I was standing on, with my blade pointed in front of me, yelling at me. No, not me. It. My right palm was sliced open, my own blood trickling into the pool of Katie’s. I sat there for a while. Thirty minutes, maybe. Blood spilled out of me. Complete silence. Then I heard the apartment door click open. Fuck. Aiden was home. 

“Honey? Clara?” Not Aiden. It was dad. What the hell is dad doing here?! He NEVER stops by! Not after the gun… no. We’re not going there today. I need to find a way out. I stood up, grimacing at my now purple ankle. The pain was back. I grabbed the switchblade in my left hand and slid into the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Cramped between pipes that needed fixing years ago and dusty toilet paper rolls, I crooked my head just enough to see out the crack of light between the cabinet doors. Footsteps. Coming closer. I held my breath. He didn't scream. He didn't make a sound. He just stood there, staring at Katie. Then reality sunk in. It sunk in that his only grandchild had been brutally murdered and was lying in a well of her own blood in his daughter's apartment bathroom. He turned directly facing my cabinet. I realized he was crying. Crying. I was sure Chris Hudson had never shed a tear in his life. Not when I stole his gun. Not when Mom died. Not when Hope got in that car crash. Not once. But here he was. Leaning over the sink I was hiding under, taking shuddering breaths between sobs. Then the tears stopped. His breathing returned to normal. Less than five minutes of mourning, he was back to normal. Exactly what I expected. He left silently, pausing in the bathroom doorway to stare at the bathtub. Then he pulled out his phone. If he calls 911 I’m dead. I’m dead either way. Let's just get this over with.

"Hey, Frank, I'm going to be a little late to work tomorrow. Yes, of course. I'll get the papers to you by Wednesday. Alright, see you later. Bye,"

Wait a second. Did he just call WORK? This man really never did give two shits about us, huh? Of course he’s still working. Even at 68.

After I was sure he'd left, I crept out of the cabinet. Everything was just as it was before he came. I was still alone. Aiden's not coming back. How stupid am I to think that he would? I'm tired of this. Of killing any choice of happiness. I'm 36 years old. I was supposed to have my shit together by now. But here I am. Standing in a bathroom full of the blood of the only person I loved. And I'm to blame for her death.