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The Darkness In Her Home
This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was supposed to be over, done with. But like a bad cold, it snuck back up on her. This monster, this terrible thing she thought banished long ago. It was here. The Darkness, it was here again, in her life, in her home, in her daughter.
She was in the tub, her body cold despite the warm red water.
“Don’t go, not yet.” She remembers faintly. She remembers her other daughter’s screams, and how she felt so sick and disgusted of the young girl and of herself. The ambulance came eventually, someone had called 911. She remembers touching her daughters wet hair, plastered to her face. The cuts on her own wrists familiar, and ones on her daughter’s thin hips were new to her.
She remembers tears. Tears came from everyone, her mother, her father, her sister, her daughter and her husband. They cried for so long, and yet never did their eyes go dry.
She remembers “She’s alive.” She felt numb.
She remembers everyone else smiled, and cried some more.
She remembers being disgusted once again. Who were they? They made no sense to her. Why were they so happy? Her daughter wasn’t done; The Darkness hadn’t left her yet. She could feel it lurking in the room, smirking. She felt so angry.
She went in last. She didn’t want to be too close; she didn’t want to be infected again. But she knew it to be in poor taste, so she went in. She remembers trying not to breathe it in, The Darkness.
Everyone left. Mother and daughter time she supposed. Her daughter, barely conscience barely mouthed an apology.
“Shut up.” She remembers. Her daughter’s lip quivers. She doesn’t care.
“Why?” It was a dumb question she knew, one that wouldn’t be answered.
She remembers the day her daughter was released. It had been a long time. Her family stood there, smiles on their faces. Why? They couldn’t see The Darkness. Even as her daughter walked toward them, smiling in new clothes, The Darkness walked beside her, holding her hair like a leash. They couldn’t see. She could, it wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to see it, she didn’t want it in her house.
She remembers waking her daughter in the middle of the night. She was still sleepy, and she was still alive. She was waiting, she knew, and reached under the pillow and took out the cold metal. Her daughter looked at her, she looked at her daughter, and then she walked out.
She remembers, “Not yet.”
So her daughter went to sleep
Her daughter went to school, and people were happy, pleased, satisfied. But she knew, she knew her daughter was waiting.
During one weekend, everyone went fishing. Her daughter never liked fishing, so no one questioned her absence.
She remembers, “Not yet.”
Her daughter was still alive when they returned. But she could see it, The Darkness growing skinny in hunger. It was starving, and now it needed to be fed.
And feed it did. It grew back slowly, and her daughter got smaller. Soon her daughter would be gone again.
She remembers waking up one morning, and snatching her daughter out of bed. She put her in the car, and they drove away. The airport, it was so small, was empty. They got a flight pretty easily. She remembers being ungrateful for such a stroke. They went to Paris. She remembers how beautiful people were. They went to China, everyone was so short, and many people stared. They went to Africa, they stayed there the longest. She remembers volunteering, and a little boy with a crush on her daughter. She remembers he died. Then they stayed in Canada, near Niagara. Everyone seemed to be in love.
She remembers a conversation.
“Why?” Her daughter asked
“I have been where you are.” She showed her daughter her scars.
“How did you get out?”
“I travelled, looking for a purpose.”
“What was it, your purpose?”
“Nothing, my purpose was nothing. No one really has a reason for being here but to continue the human race. God never expected much from us.”
“Really, why else would her give Adam a fully grown garden, why would he give the man a paradise with no need of altering?”
“I guess, so he could be happy?”
“God does not understand happiness. He is above that.”
“I never knew you were so religious.”
“I’m not really. My mother was though.”
“She doesn’t seem like it.”
“People get busy.”
She remembers silence.
“It’s okay not to have a future.”
She remembers her daughter looking at her.
“ Life is not meant to be so stony.”
“Stony?” She laughed. She assumed it to be a drug joke, so she laughed as well.
“God needs amusement, no being is above boredom.”
“This was fun.” Her daughter said.
“I know.” She remembers. Her daughter went to sleep. She stared at her daughter, and then called her husband. He was worried; he didn’t know where they were. She remembers giving him an address then talking with him for awhile.
She remembers the road, lonely even with all the cars around her. The Darkness was in her back seat, smiling at her in her rear view mirror. She vowed not to let it touch her, not yet. She remembers her cell phone on fire for days. She didn’t pick up. She drove far, until her fuel ran out. Her car drifted into the emergency lane, and she finally answered her cell phone. It was her daughter.
“Not yet. Not for a long time.” She remembers her daughter saying goodbye. Her voice so sweet and she knew that The Darkness had left no trace in her daughter. It remained only in the backseat. She remembers turning around to face The Darkness, and its cold hand caressing her face. It disgusted her, but she was alright. She remembers being alright because it wasn’t in her home, and it wasn’t in her daughter. If this was the price she would pay in full.