Things That Come in the Night
YCIS-Chongqing, Alice Jao, Fiction: Group 4
I
t slithers in the dead of night. Its claws scratch persistently at the door, its teeth curl in
a snarl upon its ugly, deformed snout. I cling onto the door handle like a lifeline, trying
desperately to keep it at bay. I pray for it to leave me be for just one night. But it never does
and try as I might it continues to torment me without mercy. The memory envelops me and
leaves a trail of cold sweat in its wake.
It began that one day, one out of the tens of thousands to come, yet it changed every minute
after. People say that it wasn’t my fault. That it was a horrific unavoidable accident that nobody
could have prevented. But the acidic asphalt burning its way up my nose and the smoke watering
my eyes tell me otherwise. My hands lay limp beside me quivering ever so often and dripping
bright, crimson red. The voices are but a continuous drone in the background and everything is
moving so achingly slow.
Humans easily succumb to pathetic desires. Our minds so easily mistake wants for needs. A
night out with my sister was all it was supposed to be. However, when does anything go the way
one wants it to anymore? I sashay to the car on a hallucinatory dance floor, clutching a drink in
my hand, one of many we both had. I climb in shotgun while she takes the wheel. A buzz takes
over my brain and we both chat in a bubbly manner that one only does under the influence of
alcohol. Leaning back against the seat, I let myself slip into a numb stupor as the car stutters out
of the parking lot.
Mom and Dad never forgave me. I can see it in the way they sporadically stutter at me. Their
gape open with sympathetic phrases but in their eyes I see guilt, distrust and most of all betrayal.
Like I was the cause and I guess I was. Kat had been the perfect prodigal child. She wasn’t forced
into perfect grades and charismatic manners. She loved it, breathed and lived it with her very
being. Yet she was the one that was punished for some unknown reason. And Mom and Dad were
left with contumacious, mercurial me. We never cleaned up my sister’s room. Kat’s beloved items
lay scattered across the floor where she left them, like broken pieces of a toy. Her bed is fixed in
haste like she always leaves it. Almost making it seem like it was all a nightmare and any second
she would step out from the bathroom or kitchen and ask me what was going on in her normal
quizzical manner. Why everyone had such long faces. She would rustle my hair and give me a
cheeky grin before strolling off to do god knows what.
But reality has a cruel wake-up call. I gaze at her face among the flickering flames. It’s empty
and cold, deprived of any life or expression except that of absolute terror that her facial features
had arranged themselves into and then frozen. People hustle around like mice, trying to keep
the fire at bay but I stand still, a statue of muscle and bone. I know it hasn’t hit me yet and I take
this time to try and calm myself down. The edge of my sleeve chafes at my skin and I pull at it,
thankful for the familiarity. Someone tugs at my hand and I am led to a stroller. Lying down I feel
the linen make indents against my oversensitive skin. I ignore it and close my eyes, letting the
darkness wash over me.
* * *
