Dark

TRIGGER WARNING: Contains language, abusive parents, brief incestuous thoughts/fantasies, suicidal ideation, violence/death/gore.

I can’t fall asleep. If I fall asleep, the light will go out. If the light goes out, the Dark will get in. If the Dark gets in, I will die.

I don’t know what time it is. The sun’s down. Eight hours—maybe more until daylight? A candle shines for about eight hours, which means I have to wake up to relight once a night. Waking like that was a skill I had honed since childhood—not knowing then how vital it would become.

The good news? My legs are broken—freshly broken, so holy shit, do they hurt—and that should keep me up for a while. The bad news? I have zero candles, just this one green glowstick—not enough lumens to last the night—15 now, but that’ll drop fast, and I need 10 minimum. I can see more than a dozen candles, spilling out of the backpack of a dead man about twenty feet away from me. Only... did I mention my legs?

So here I am, immobile, put gently, with a dead man who has everything I need to survive, just out of reach.

I shouldn’t be here. I made one fucking mistake—okay, a series of bad decisions that led to this one fucking mistake. If I had taken a moment... If I had thought for two seconds...

I wish I didn’t have to be inside this house; the crescent moon is kicking off at least 4 lumens on its own. But if I burn a light outside, I run the risk of Wolves finding me, and those raiders are as bad as the Dark—more, maybe, because they’re human; there’s a betrayal when they hunt and kill you for food, equipment, sport... or worse.

The Dark kills you quickly; they engulf a body—clutch around a person like white blood cells attacking a virus. It’s no picnic. But Wolves? They kill with clubs and knives—or torture you for God knows how long. If I had to choose how to die? I don’t know. I guess... diabetes?

Fucking Wolves. They’re the reason I’m here. You too, I wonder? I can’t see your face—can’t see any injuries. No. The Dark got you. Wolves would’ve taken your pack and candles. Those candles. Think you could just... toss one over here? Of course not. You can’t do shit.

I can help keep you awake.

No. Thank you. I’d rather not talk to you. No offense. This world is fucked up enough; I don’t need to talk to a corpse. I’ll talk at you, but I’d rather you not respond.

Suit yourself.

Technically, that was a response.

This pain. It’s so bad I can fucking hear it—like aggressive white noise—a relentlessly hissing waterfall of glass. If it settled, maybe I could get some sleep.

You can’t fall asleep.

No, I know. Not all night, just a nap.

You have to figure out how to get these candles.

I know, I know... Maybe I could light something on fire.

And burn down the whole house? Then what, genius? Run away? Even if you could move, you don’t think the Wolves would see a house in flames?

Listen, if you’re going to talk and have a personality, could you maybe not be smarter than me? Than I? Than... what would it be?

Get your shit together.

Jesus. Fine. You’re right. Okay?

Fucking Wolves. No, you know what? I can’t blame them. I panicked. I knew better; I panicked. And it wasn’t only them, anyway...

I was walking through the woods... Goddamn it, I’ve been alone in the woods so long, why did I get freaked out this time? You know what it is? All those times you saw things out of the corner of your eye, something in the shadows, now you know you could be right. How do you take the chance? The Dark can’t survive in anything above 10 lumens, so you’re safe until twilight in the open, but not so much in canopy coverage.

Walking along, every dancing shadow from cottonwood leaves in the breeze, every dark space in the bushes made my head swivel and panic rise.

Then, I saw it. The Dark, stoic between columns of spruce tree trunks. Featureless. A black void. And still, I could feel it looking at me.

The sun was setting fast—like a stone in water.

A child-sized Dark emerged from behind the tall one. Then another. It’s impossible to express the sickness you feel when you see a child Dark. It would be easier to handle if they were a mindless, identical hoard. But no, they have children.

The shadows stretched in the fading sun, and the Dark closed in, emitting that hollow sound like an eternal inhale, growing louder as they neared me.

I already had the flare in my hand, waiting for them to get closer before I activated it. I wanted to hurt them. I wanted them to feel the light—I wanted to see them shrink in pain, and they did.

But a flare is a last resort, and though I was right to use it, the billowing smoke, the blooming light would alert nearby Wolves.

It seemed instantaneous—lights, in the distance shining through the thick forest—Wolves were heading toward me in cars with searchlights, burning through power and gas—something the rest of us held as precious. They controlled gas stations and raided stores. They ate and drained every power source in a compulsion to control and destroy without thought of the future.

If I ditched the flare, I might lose the Wolves, but with the night fast approaching, I would be defenseless against the Dark.

I ran, flare in hand. The Dark peeked around trees as I passed—long fingers wrapped around the slender trunks and over the tops of boulders—afraid but also waiting for the moment I would discard the flare or it would burn out.

I ran toward the setting sun, thinking it somehow was buying me time, but it led me to disaster: a cliff. I came sliding to a stop, almost slipping over the edge. The flare, popping and crackling away, was dying. I turned to locate the Wolves. Scattered lights whipped chaotically through the trees, searching for me but unsure of my location. Then why did I react so harshly? Why didn’t I take a moment to think?

An audience of Dark hid behind trees and bushes, eager for my decision. And I didn’t keep them waiting.

I jumped—flare in hand—too afraid to let go. It must have looked beautiful, a glowing red orb—like a shooting star falling to Earth.

Then I landed. The crack of my legs—the bones—I can’t explain—it felt as if it shattered to my teeth. I rolled down a slope, sparks from the flare swirling around. Pain shot through my body as if my blood was, at once, turned to acid. I hoped my head would crash against a rock and end it all, but I wasn’t so lucky.

I came to a stop. My legs felt like they were skinned, stinging pain on every bit of surface, but besides the break and some minor cuts, I was intact. And Goddamn it, if you’re alive, you have to struggle. There’s no choice. As long as your body can fight, it will fight. In the middle of the ocean, sharks circling below, rescue impossible, we’ll all still tread water. Why? Why do we prolong the inevitable? Why do we torture ourselves? But I did... and I do.

My pack had ripped open, everything scattered too far away for me to gather. I had one glowstick left in my pocket that somehow survived the fall.

I doused the flare and crawled, dragging my legs, pain with every pull—I could feel every pebble, every blade of grass as I dragged myself along through a field, the remaining sunlight enough to keep the Dark away.

Eventually, I saw this place. This house. Abandoned, except for you. You. If I had seen you, if I had noticed your pack and candles when I came in, I might have thought to grab them. Now?... Now, I don’t know if I have any strength left. But here I am, treading water while the sharks circle beneath the surface.

Why are you here?

I just told you.

No, that’s how you got here. Why are you here?... Why can’t you even admit it to me? Here, at the end of everything.

I’m treading water.

I think you want an excuse to give up.

An excuse? Even if I get the candles, even if I last the night—

We keep fighting. We fight until we can’t anymore.

I lied. We don’t. Not everyone. Not always. Some people sink—some people sink, let go of their last breath, and watch the bubbles float to the surface with utter relief. Jesus, I want to let go of this breath—I want all of this out of me! Can you see down this hallway? The blackness at the end? That’s not a shadow. That’s them. They’re waiting—a group of them—waiting to devour me. A family of them. A whole family.

A family...

...Yes...

I grew up afraid of the dark... lowercase dark.

When I think about my life from the beginning, the first thing I remember is a nightmare featuring the horrifying grin of a plastic daisy, and next to it, the equally, viciously happy smile of a plastic alligator. The daisy and alligator were toys of mine. There was nothing overtly scary about them—and I wasn't scared of them in everyday life, just this dream.

My parents used to hate my nightmares—used to hate me waking them up. I would sit on my knees on top of my bed, bounce, and whisper-yell for my father. I guess I didn't want to wake them or scare them—who knows why I did it that way.

I do know why I sat on my knees in the middle of the bed. The floor was dark, to a child, a bottomless pit covered with shadow demons. There was no way I would've made it to my parent's room down the hallway—short as an adult, maybe 3 or 4 strides, but endless and terrifying to me then. Was I right about the darkness? Were they already here?

My father would stomp into my room—those approaching impacts of his feet shaking my insides—furiously flinging closet doors open to show me there was nothing there. And when I wouldn’t stop crying—and I tried so hard it felt like I was suffocating—I would cover my mouth and squeeze my eyes so tight—but when I couldn’t stop...

When I was young but old enough to know better, I would pee in the corner of my room at night because I was too scared to cross the hallway to the bathroom, too scared to call for help. I don't know why I thought I could get away with it. Or maybe I didn't care. Whatever my father would do to me was better than trying to cross the dark hallway.

My sister slept on the other side of the house. I remember telling my therapist I was so confused why they kept her so far away. Was I?

One night, after my parents had sent me to bed, but before they had gone to sleep, I snuck out of my room. It was dark, yes, but the flickering of the TV gave me enough audacity to creep behind the sofa and into my sister’s room. The idea of them ever checking on me never entered my mind, and I’m sure it never entered their minds either. That said, he would’ve killed me if he found me in there. He had never choked me before, but the times he had grabbed my arm and twisted me to the ground... Well, I knew it was something he would do—something he wanted to do.

I’ll never forget the comfort of my sister’s smile lit by the sliver of the opened door. She flipped the covers back and invited me in.

We talked, pushing the boundaries of what was too loud, but we were so excited to be together. That first night, I didn’t sleep much at all, too afraid to be caught. Still, that morning, I’d never felt so rejuvenated.

Night after night, I would do the same thing, conditioned when to wake up and creep back to my room in the pale dawn before morning. They never caught me. Or maybe the uninterrupted sleep was enough for them.

My sister moved out as soon as she could, heartbreaking for both of us, but getting out of that house was the only way to survive, and I understood. Our parents would occasionally let me stay with her; they didn’t want me around anyway.

One time, I fell off my bike. I hit the ground with such force—my forehead directly onto the concrete. My skin split open, blood flowed down my face into my eyes and mouth. I was so afraid of all the blood that, with my panicked breaths, I sucked some up my nose. It burned. When I finally got untangled from the bike, I saw my father, sitting in a folding chair on the porch—like he often did—just looking at me. I could barely see him through the blood, but I could feel him staring at me, wishing I would bleed out.

When I would visit my sister, we couldn’t get in bed fast enough. We loved laying there, talking until our throats hurt, wondering who would be the last to speak before we at last fell asleep.

I would tell her stories—made-up stories of dates with boys she liked. The meal on the date was always important—or at least I liked that part. Then, the date would progress. Would they kiss? Would they make love? As I invented the night, I would become aroused and secretly touch myself next to her, trying to keep my voice from shaking, trying not to orgasm.

She would sleep. I would watch her. I would watch her, and I would touch myself. Her soft lips, her cheeks lit by the slightest light from the green glow of the nightstand clock. Sometimes, I would get lucky; she would sleep on top of the covers, on her side, on her stomach. The way the tank top would slide around, revealing more of her, the way her shorts hiked up in her sleep...

Then, one day, the Dark arrived. They took over the world, killing so many people at first before we learned how to survive them—not fight, not really, only repel them, just keep them at bay. Then the Wolves. It was chaos. And still, throughout this, my feelings for my sister continued to increase, and in this apocalypse, I stopped being able to find reasons not to submit to my desires. So, for her sake, for mine, I left.

I’ve been treading water for years now, surviving on my own, always moving. I’ve learned to survive. I’ve learned to stay away.

Your light is fading. You’re probably down to 10 lumens.

I can hear them; I can hear the Dark.

Have you ever thought, instead of treading water... swim?

They’re closing in. I can feel it; heat and chill, like a fever.

You have to move.

Why? Why do anything? Why keep fighting?

Because you have to. Go!

Crawling, my forearms slamming to the cold floor. The Dark closes in like a barrel of spilled ink. I can feel them against my skin, trying to get a hold. Their inhale, that gasp, pulling my sanity toward it.

Feet away, my legs dragging behind me, reaching out with each push forward.

Finally, I grab a candle so hard I snap it in two—but it doesn’t matter. Then, to my pocket for a match—the squeezing of my hand in my pockets shoots pain to my legs, but I persevere.

A loud gasp from the Dark!

I strike the match—the initial bloom sending them skittering back. And then the candle; its silky flame waves up, and that wind-like sound of the flame is the only sound in the silence until I finally exhale.

I greedily gather more candles than I’ll need for the night, clutching them to me, the musical sound of the tapers as they rattle together.

Everything seems better. Even the pain is subsiding.

#

In the morning, having found equipment to brace my legs and support under my arms, I hobble out of the house. The landscape is vast, a large field of golden, rolling grass in the morning sun.

With movement easier now, I head off down a nearby road. Why not stay in the house? It’s occupied. I need someplace of my own.

Days go by without incident, no Wolves, no Dark, but my supply of candles is running low. I’m in the middle of nowhere, for better or worse, a long stretch of road winding through gray mountains and tall trees.

Then, with a sign large enough to make me laugh: The Candle Factory.

I head into the warehouse. Boxes and boxes full of candles—flavors, colors, sizes—untouched, unseen by anyone other than its past stewards, long since gone. It’s too far from gas stations or stores for the Wolves to have stumbled across. The Dark is here, though. I saw them scatter when I opened the warehouse door.

These candles will last a while, but not forever. Someday, I’ll have to move on.

The End