Sarah

Please be aware this story contains elements of child abuse/neglect, death, and an implication of self-harm.

“Are you there, God? It’s me, Sarah. Sarah Peters. Sarah Eve Peters. I know there’s probably a lot of Sarah Peters in the world.” Sarah kneels, old beige carpet digging into her knees like gravel, her hands clasped at her forehead and her elbows resting on a green threadbare blanket patterned with hummingbirds. “Although, you are an omnipotent being, so you should already know who I am.” Sarah hesitates, wondering if she should continue.

“I’m not going to lie. I don’t believe in you.” Sarah stops. What is she doing? She’s never asked God for anything before. Sarah presses her lips together, her hands gripped so tight her knuckles must be white. The horrible carpet hurts her knees, but the pain in her heart hurts more. She doesn’t smell the mustiness of the room anymore. She still smells the urine; it makes her nose burn, but she’s used to that, too. “I don’t believe. But I don’t know what to do.” She sounds defeated, like a balloon deflating. “Mom and Dad aren’t supposed to be dead.”

***

“Are you there, God? It’s me, Sarah. You know the one. I know you know, because you’re an all-powerful thing so how could you not know?” She doesn’t bother to kneel this time; she instead speaks to the ceiling. There’s silence, and Sarah grits her teeth. Her side is sore; she can practically feel the bruise spreading. It hurts to breathe, so she tries not to.

“Mom and Dad are dead, and I’m here. Why? Why am I here? I know you get that question a lot, so I know you have an answer.” Only the silent room answers. The ugly room with its ugly carpet and ugly mustard yellow walls with a lamp that barely casts light that Sarah has been in since her parents died. She jiggles the knob on the black door and like every other time, it’s locked. She kicks the door in frustration, wincing at the impact of her toes and putting a hand to her ribs. Tears slide down her cheeks, and she bites her tongue to resist screaming. If she screams, Fake Mom and Fake Dad will come and everything will be worse.

“Why is this happening to me? Why did you do this to me? You took Mom and Dad and gave me them.” Sarah snarls, wrath consuming her. “No wonder I don’t believe in you. Why should I? You replaced my parents with monsters. Everyone says you have a plan. An almighty, divine plan because you love us." She wants to rip her hair out of her skull. "How is this love?” More tears come, she sucks in a shaky breath, whimpering like a beat dog, and Sarah must cover her mouth lest Fake Mom and Fake Dad hear her.

“I hate you,” Sarah mumbles as she quietly sobs.

***

“Are you there, God? It’s me, again.” Sarah lays on top of her hummingbird blanket, picking at the loose threads. “I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. I said it in anger. I... wasn’t me.” Her side still hurts, and now her ankle swells from where Fake Mom shoved her out of a chair. She can see the large lump and it throbs; it pains her to move it.

“I don’t hate you. Not really. But please, God. Make this ache go away. I don’t like it. Make Fake Mom and Fake Dad go away. Please. I’ll do anything. I believe in you. Does that make it better? Will you make them go away if I believe? I’ll never ask you for anything ever again. Just this one thing; just make me not hurt anymore, please. I don’t know what else to do!” Sarah thinks she can’t cry anymore, but she does. "I'm so lonely."

She barely remembers Mom and Dad now. Their faces blur, and in her dreams, she knows they are Mom and Dad, but they don’t look like she thought. Sometimes they appear as Fake Mom and Fake Dad; other times they appear as strangers.

“At least let me dream of Mom and Dad. Real Mom and Dad. Let me see their faces. That will be enough for me to believe.” Sarah slowly drifts like a raft asea, curling beneath the hummingbird blanket Mom and Dad gave her for her fifth birthday. As Sarah snuggles into her blanket, she imagines she still smells them.

She sleeps, dreaming she, Mom, and Dad are hummingbirds, flying far away.

***

Sarah doesn’t speak anymore, only to God - true to her bargain - and even then, she whispers her prayers. Ever since she dreamed of Mom and Dad, she hasn’t been able to get it out of her head. She thought it would make her feel better, give her hope, but all it’s done is remind her that she’s trapped in a world Mom and Dad are no longer a part of. That emptiness consumes her, like a black hole sucking in light. She’s not sure how long grief has been her constant companion. All she knows is that she will never be happy again.

The hummingbird blanket covers her, her back to the black door that only opens once a day. When she first arrived, she thought she could make a run for it and follow Mom and Dad. But Fake Dad caught her around the waist and threw her back onto the bed and slammed the door. She tried a few more times, too. The closest she got was to the front door. But Fake Dad caught her again and had been angrier than Sarah had ever seen him. She never tried again.

She hears heavy footsteps. Fake Dad was coming. It didn’t take her long to figure out which pair of footsteps belonged to whom. She hears the doorknob rattle, and if she hadn’t given up already, she would have tried to run. Everything was hopeless. “Please don’t let him hurt me,” Sarah says, barely audible even to God.

The door opens, the hinges creaking. Fake Dad grumbles about something that Sarah ignores. What does it matter? She stares at the wall, the ugly mustard yellow becoming endearing.

The black door closes, not a slam but not softly, and Sarah feels like the door closing is the end of everything.

"Are you there, God?" Nothing. "I think what I'm about to ask for is a sin."

***

Sarah yelps when she sees it.

A figure writhing in shadows stands in the corner of the room next to the door. She sits up, pulling her blanket up to her chin. She stares at it, and she has the funny feeling it’s staring at her. She opens her mouth to speak or to scream, she's not sure, but nothing comes out.

The figure raises an arm, blackness pouring from it like smoke.

Sarah flinches and yanks the blanket over her, bringing her knees up to her chest as far as they’ll go. She squeezes her eyes shut. She shakes beneath her blanket, mouthing prayers. She stills when she feels a hand on her shoulder. A hand that feels comforting, like Mom’s hand when she pulled Sarah in for a hug or to whisper in her ear that she was the most loved girl on Earth. Sarah relaxes, a calmness descending over her. She's no longer fearful. She starts to turn, to face it, to revel in it, when it squeezes her shoulder.

“Don’t... looooook.” It speaks slowly with an ancient voice that comes from everywhere and nowhere. Sarah faces the wall, and she hears a click as the door is unlocked. Soft footsteps on tattered carpet match Sarah’s breathing. She hears yells, a shout, a thud that shakes the house. There’s screaming and Sarah winces, shutting her eyes tight.

The screams are cut off, and the silence is just as deafening. She hears footsteps again, but they stop just before they reach her bed. Sarah releases a breath through trembling lips.

“Are you there, God?”