My Own Shadow

I haven’t stepped outside for three weeks. Shades drawn and covered with old, thick duvet covers that I stapled. The fridge lightbulb unscrewed. Taped over the dull flickering smoke alarm light, the DVD player, the alarm clock, and the washing machine. I don’t want to see my shadow.

At first, I thought it was just a trick of the light. Small twitches of my fingers that I hadn’t moved. My head moving one way, and my shadow the other. I could feel it creep behind me, even curl a finger or two around my shoulder, my neck, my hands. I thought I had the strength to ignore it.

It was the ninety-seven bus, the line I take every day to work and back. Early morning sun was shining through the windows, so dense and heavy that you could see dust floating through the stale air. The bus jolted as it pulled from the curb and hissed as it took off. My shadow was cast on the opposite side of the bus.

Three rows across, diagonally in front, a man, legs open and spread across the two seats beside him. I risked a glance. His eyes locked with mine, like I was the only body on the bus. He adjusted himself, squeezing the zipper on his jeans, staring at the slit in my skirt. No shame.

I felt an itch in my stomach. I turned away fast, swallowing the uncomfortable spike curling up the back of my throat. I didn’t have to see to know. I could feel his gaze on me, on my legs, my buttoned top, my arms, my chest, my lips. It was sticky, invasive, and deliberate.

I kept telling myself my stop would come soon. I can get off the bus soon. My stop will come soon. I’ll get off the bus soon. My stop will come soon. I’ll get off the bus soon. His mouth parted, tongue moving between his front teeth. He touched himself slower, harder against his jeans. That feeling in my throat grew. It felt like smoke flooded my mouth—dark fumes wafted across my teeth. My stop will come soon. I’ll get off the bus soon. My stop will come soon. I’ll get off the bus soon. My nails dug into my palm, drawing blood.

I turned my head away from him, to anywhere my eyes could land. I looked to the other side of the bus to see that my shadow had slipped away. Like it had peeled itself from the wall where it once was. My eyes darted around, looking for it. Frantic. Crazed. Desperate.

I saw it sinking down the aisle, impossibly flat yet moving with its own three-dimensional intent. My breath hitched as it moved without me. The man rubbed himself again. The same dark, ugly, growing feeling in me was still wrapping itself over every organ. My shadow stretched long across the bus floor, climbing over the patterned rubber matting until it reached him. It grew taller than the bus ceiling and leaned over him. Its hands slowly wrapped around his neck, each finger clasping his throat. Though it had no mouth, no eyes, no breath at all, I felt it looking at me as it choked him.

I sprang from my seat, slammed my hand against the emergency stop button, and ran off the bus. Called work and said I’d need time off. Shut out all light. I was afraid of my own shadow.

Last Tuesday, my mother called me. I picked up the landline, which I had blacked with the glowing numbered buttons with a marker.

“Why did your sister call me to tell me you haven’t been to work?”

I shook my head like she could actually see me through the phone. I knew I shouldn’t have told Natalie I’d been calling out sick. “I don’t feel good,” I said, rubbing my temple.

“You haven’t felt good for three weeks, and you haven’t seen a doctor?”

“No.”

“Brady is a doctor; he will help you.”

“Brady is a dentist, Mom.” Brady, my sister's husband, is…slimy. Eleven year age gap. Met when she was seventeen and he was twenty-eight. She had a dream of being a paleontologist. She was Jane Goodall for Halloween for Christ's sake. She dropped out of school, declined offers to work in the field, and ended up being a stay at home mom for the kid he had before they even met. She always says it was her choice. But in the back of her eyes, there’s a dark glimmer, a candle in a flood of darkness, that tells me she knows it wasn’t. She stays married to him. Too caught in the undertow of her own decisions. And for me to see that is what bothers her the most.

My mother sighed into the phone, “Brady is smarter than you; he’ll know what’s wrong. We’re having their anniversary party at the house this weekend.”

I winced. Both at the idea and at the familiar sharp itch billowing in the pits of my stomach. I swallowed it and said, “I don’t think I can go.”

“You never show up for this family.”

I said nothing.

“Everyone will arrive in the evening. Dad is grilling. Steak or brugers. Something like that.”

I said nothing.

“Please bring something. A dish. Macaroni. Brady loves macaroni.”

She hung up before I could even utter a syllable. I stood there, the phone gripped in my palm, shaking. I moved to the window. My teeth were grinding back and forth, the itch working its way up and up till it was stabbing the roof of my mouth. I pushed the curtain to the side, letting a sliver of sunlight peer through the slit. My eyes squinted at the sudden brightness that I’ve kept out. I felt a few fingers brush my neck, sink down my back. Dammit.

I didn’t move for days. Always careful to never stand where a light bulb could catch me. What my mother said to me lingered, like a curse. I opened the fridge, even the faint yellow light—slipping past the tapped-over bulb I forgot to unscrew, made me flinch. My shadow shifted along the wall. I slammed the door before it could stretch any further.

I couldn’t bring myself to cook. I bought a box of macaroni at the corner store instead. Kept my head low, darted between buildings, staying in the shade. I told myself I wouldn’t see it. I wouldn’t have to see it if I just kept moving, kept my head low, and stayed away from sunlight. But still. The whole way home, I had felt it next to me. Like a fly that won’t leave you alone.

Saturday came. The macaroni sat heavy in its tin foil pan in one hand, and the other grasped the door handle. My body felt heavy, struck with fear.

The lock clicked. The hallway lights buzzed overhead. I stepped out, watching my shadow cast on the wall beside me. I tried not to look, but I caught a glimpse as I passed the stairwell. Of course, it was coming with me, it was my shadow after all.

My parents' house smelled like garlic and smoke. Chatter swelled from the living room where a few balloons and streamers sagged from the ceiling. I couldn’t help but scoff. My mother spotted me.

“There she is,” she announced, like I was late to my own trial. With her arms crossed, mouth in a flat line, she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Put this in the kitchen.”

Natalie followed my mother. She looked thinner than last year. Eyes a bit sunken, but she smiled like she had been practicing it all morning. “Happy to see you,” she whispered.

I nodded. “Yeah. Happy anniversary.”

She smiled in return, but it was weak, soft.. She smoothed out her dress, grasping onto her arm like there was a half-healed bruise there. She turned to the dining room, where everybody was. She didn’t want to linger near me too long. I could tell by the way her eyes kept fluttering to the floor, to the kitchen, the hallway. The itch bloomed again. I cleared my throat and carried the macaroni to the kitchen, dropped it on the counter, and braced myself against the sink. The lights were too bright. My shadow fanned across the tile floor, sharp-edged and dense.

“You sick?” Brady said, leaning against the counter. “Natalie’s mother told me.” His voice was oily—coating, suffocating.

“I’m alright,” I muttered, refusing to turn around.

“It’s not your little friend, is it?”

“What?”

“The one that visits you every month?” He cocked an eyebrow, rolled up his sleeves like he was trying to flash that new shiny gold watch on his wrist.

I bit my tongue. “What are you talking about?”

“If I stayed home every time I didn’t feel perfect, I’d get nothing done.”

On the counter was a cake with “Happy anniversary” written on it and placed in front. A few kitchen knives and plates were set beside it. A picture of Natalie and Brady is behind it. I shook my head at the sight.

“You know,” he moved closer. I could smell the cologne on him. “You can’t stay cooped up like this forever.”

“I know,” I huffed, shying away from my face. An ugliness was bubbling. I gripped the counter. My knuckles turned white.

“Natalie sure is worried about you. Not that she has much time to worry. She runs around with the kids on her hip all day.” He stepped closer. “Come down to my office soon.” His voice dropped lower. “Maybe I can make you feel better,” he whispered, his voice dripping down my ears like a burning chemical.

“Shut up,” I spat between the gaps in my teeth.

His hand brushed my lower back, pressing a thumb on my tailbone, leaving an intense burning there. I felt covered in smoke. In soot. I could feel a ripping, curling, sprawling sensation in every nerve in my body.

I turned to the tiled floor, to my shadow. Brady didn’t notice. He was too busy smirking at me, his hand moving lower. My shadow slid across the kitchen, detaching from my body like an oil spill. It crept up the counter. “Natalie doesn’t need another headache. Let me make you feel better.”

He pressed his hands harder against the soft parts of my body. I felt the weight of my shadow move across me and over Brady. I watched it as it loomed over him. Its fingers twitched, curling, eager.

“Don’t be difficult,” he said into my hair, pressing himself against me. I suddenly felt oceans away from my body. My shadow lifted its arm, stretching across the cabinets to the kitchen ceiling, the silhouette of a knife gripped in its palm.

My eyes flooded with smoke so dark, so suffocating I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see, feel, or hear.

The kitchen suddenly went quiet.

My mother's laughter still faintly coming from the dining room, muffled behind walls and music. But in here, there was only the hum of the refrigerator and the ragged pull of my own exhale.

Brady slumped against the counter, mouth slack, eyes wide with shock. His shirt was stained, a spreading bloom across the blue cotton.

I looked down. My hand clutched the knife, slick, dripping, the steel flashing under the kitchen lights. My shadow lay at the feet, like it hadn’t moved at all—perfectly ordinary.

Brady held his chest, crimson spurting through his fingers. Eyes white and locked on mine.

I huffed, the chest rising up and down like there was a mountain lying on top of it. I dropped the knife, clutched myself like I was going to disappear.

My hands felt dirty as warm drips fell down my fingertips. My back was still burning from where he had touched me. I touched my stomach, swallowed, and felt my spit travel down my throat.

Funny enough, I really had felt better.

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