It started when I was a child. My mom likes to say it’s because of my dad’s death, and that the trauma messed with my head.
She didn’t see the monster, though.
I saw it, the distorted shadow and smoke that stretched over the scene before me that night. I was only a child, merely five years old. But I remember it vividly.
Blood leaked from my father's head, painting the concrete crimson red. His face was twisted into a silent scream of horror, his eyes distant and pale. The monster stood over him, unmoving. It held no eyes, but I could feel its persistent, icy stare boring into me, covering my body and mind in a sheen of frost. I don’t know how long I sat there, staring at it. The shadows staring at me.
Sticky, thick blood dripped from my face as my glazed eyes drifted towards my father, then back to the monster. I watched in terror as the monster, with patient cruelty, lifted a bony, jagged hand from within its inky shadow. Then slowly, ever so slowly, it curled its finger until it was pointed directly at me, stopping my heart for a flash. That’s when the frost melted, and I finally began to scream.
The monster did this, I tried to tell my mom. I watched as her eyes flashed with horror before welling with pity as she embraced me, cooing that monsters are not real. I pointed to where the beast stood, only to see the body of my father alone on the pavement, no shadow in sight. Only a bitter chill was left in its wake. She didn’t see it.
I saw it.
I saw it.
I saw it.
I saw it.
I see it.
I wake to my fifth alarm, like every morning. My phone reads 7:05 am, and I let out a sigh as I sit up in bed. It’s still dark in my room, every corner cloaked in shadow. I reach for the blinds, and as I do, a chill creeps up my spine. I stiffen, eyes squeezed shut as I anticipate the coming presence. A rattling voice whispers into my ear, sending shivers through my body. Shhhhh, child. You know what to do to make it stop. If you don't, what will happen to your mother? It will be just like your father. Do you want that? I can feel the dark corners coming to life, wisps of shadow surrounding me. I bite my lip until I taste metal as I try to resist the urge.
I open the blinds.
Rain patters the window.
I close the blinds.
I take a deep breath and move my hand away, when a cold, bony hand guides it back. She’s all you have left. You must want her to die, don’t you? It’s not asking for much, I suppose, just a simple ritual. But it feels like so much. My eyes begin to well with frustration as I furiously open and close the blinds four more times.
Fuck you, I think loudly. I stomp out of bed, racing through my routine, my gumption gone for the day. I open my door, checking and rechecking the lock. I brush my hair, brush my teeth, and wash my hands five times, until my hands are raw and the ghostly whisper is temporarily gone from my head. It’s been there, lurking ever since my father died. There is no escape but to do what it says. For my mom. To protect her.
I take a deep breath and glance at myself in the mirror. I quickly wish I hadn’t. Dark circles and red-rimmed eyes stare back at me. My body is skinny and fragile, a husk of a being. I’m used to it. My jet black hair, dead at the ends, gleans with a sheen of grease. I shake my head and turn off the light, heading downstairs.
“Hey princess, you sleep well?” my mom says cheerily, her smile bright as always.
“Slept fine, thanks,” I reply groggily, cringing at the nickname. My mom gives me a look and ruffles my hair as she pulls me in for her usual hug. I squeeze her a little tighter, the memory of this morning creeping in. I pull back and sit at the table, my mouth watering at the array of fruits and pancakes spread before me.
“Made your favorite today,” my mom says. “We were out of pumpkin, though, so it’s just normal pancakes. Got strawberries to make up for it.”
I give her a meek smile as I begin to eat. My left hand rests on my leg, and I’m faintly aware of its perfect stillness.
Then, a rattling voice skitters through my mind.
I look at my mom, so full of life, the only thing I have left.
I remember my dad, lying on the concrete, blood pouring.
And I start to tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
My mother's smile begins to fade as she hears the faint tapping under the table. I clang my fork against my plate, trying to distract her. But she knows me too well.
“It’s still bothering you? You still do it?” she says quietly. “I thought you had grown out of that.”
“Mom, it’s fine. It’s really not bad, just once in a while,” I say, annoyed, my hand a living metronome.
“I just, I know it could get extreme sometimes. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” Suddenly, she can’t make eye contact. “You’re all I have left.”
“I know. So are you.” I can't look her in the eyes. There’s a silence that lasts a beat too long, until my mother clears her throat and fixes her hair how she always does in these moments.
“Right. No matter. How is your project going in math? And your English paper?”
The conversation dulls to pleasantries until I’m forced into the cold rain as I walk to school. I can feel the shadowy presence accompanying me, responsible for the faint buzzing in my head as I continue to tap my leg incessantly. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. What happened to your father will happen to her. The voice rings through my head all day, more than usual. Although it has been more persistent lately. Asking more of me every day, leaving me with few moments of stillness. I can't ever seem to escape it - that rattling, dreadful whisper.
It stays with me all day.
It stays with me for the next week.
It won’t stop the week after.
At breakfast, I slice the strawberries, red liquid oozing onto the cutting board. I wash my hands once, twice, five times. I hear the muffled sound of my mom asking me about my math homework, but her desperate attempts at normalcy are painfully obvious. I reach to put the knife back, when a chill goes down my spine. What if you don’t put the knife back right? What if it hurts your mom? Do you want that? Do you want to hurt your mom? I let out a frustrated cry as I slam the knife back into its holder. Leave me the fuck alone, I mentally cry.
I take it back out.
I slam it back in.
Do you want her to die?
I take it back out.
I slam it back in.
“Adrienne? What is going on in there?” Concern laces my mom's voice as she rounds the corner.
I take it back out.
“Oh my God, Adrienne. You said it was fucking better. Stop. Stop,” she yells, grabbing my hands. I shove her off as I begin to yell.
“It’s the monster, Mom, I’m telling you it’s real,” I desperately cry.
“No, no, no monsters are not real, Adrienne!” My mom cries back. “I’m worried about you. This isn’t normal, don’t you get it?”
“You don’t get it.” Tears stream down my cheeks. “It’s fucking real. If I don’t do it, I- If I don’t do it bad things will happen, Mom. Bad, bad things.” My mother's eyes grow wide as she stiffens.
“What do you mean, Adrienne?” Her voice suddenly grows cold.
“I don’t, I don’t mean anything, it’s the monster. The monster tells me things. Tells me what will happen if I don’t do this.”
“I have tried. I have tried so hard to act like nothing is wrong, to be there for you. But I can’t do this anymore. You’re crossing a line, Adrienne. You sound insane.”
My body begins to shiver uncontrollably at the word. Insane.
“No, no, I-I’m not insane, mom,” I say with a crazed gleam in my eyes. I’m dimly aware of the knife still in my hand.
Suddenly, so is she.
Her voice softens into a shaky, breathless whisper.
“Honey, I, I didn’t mean that, okay? You’re not insane, you’re not insane. You just need to calm down right now, alright?” She slowly begins to back away, that same horror I saw the day my father died flickering in her eyes. She tries to hide it, but I know her too well.
I look at my own mother, scared of me. I look at the knife in my hand, and I look at the holder, full of an array of red-handled knives, one missing.
You didn’t finish. One more time. She’ll die if you don’t. A horrible death. It’ll be all your fault.
I can see the shadows surrounding me, suffocating me. My body is racked with shivers, and my palms become sweaty. I see the monster now, as clear as the day my father died. It’s there, hovering over my mother, a cold, unyielding force. I squeeze my eyes closed, turning to put the knife back.
Good. Do it. Do it, or she dies, it hisses. But I can’t take it anymore. The voice, the cold, the shadows. All I want is peace. All I want is quiet.
Suddenly, I’m hit with such crystal clarity it starts to push out every shadow, an even darker presence beginning to flood my mind. To the lingering shadow that desperately clings to my mind, I hiss back.
How can she die if she’s already dead?
I turn, knife in hand, and slam it back down.
Into my mother's heart.
Blood leaks from my mother's chest. I stand over her, watching as she shudders her last breaths. Sticky, thick blood is splattered across my face. I go to wipe it away, and my hand comes back crimson. I stare at the knife, discarded on the ground, and I stare back at her. I don’t see the monster anymore. I don’t hear its chilling voice.
I’m so, so cold.
My breath comes in shallow, rattling spurts, creating puffs of frost in its wake as I slowly back away from the pool of red on the kitchen tile. Dazed, I drag myself to the bathroom and turn on the faucet. I wash my hands once, mesmerized by the swirls of red in the sink.
I look in the mirror.
And shadow is all that I see.
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