Delirium insults death, but it’ll win in the end.

The wind howls outside as the branches of the large oak tree scrape across the first floor window it stands adjacent too. My window. Always my window. Even so, it still startles me. I let out a heavy yawn and turn over, my eyes laced with delirious sleep. This is the fifth time this month that damn oak tree woke me up in the middle of the night. It’s almost as if that oak tree thrives in messing with me – mocking me. Taunting me.

Everything seems so still in the deep hours of the night. Nothing moves. It’s as if the house itself is asleep; silent and still. Sounds which are muted during the day ricochet in vibrant colors at night.

I exhale, my breath shattering the stilled silence, causing my ears to wiggle just a bit. I rub my eyes and settle back into the comfort of my bed, letting sleep envelop me, pulling me under into its embrace.

As I begin to drift, a shadow darts past my window, causing my eyes to snap open. My eyes gyrate in my skull, struggling to focus.

What was that? I think. I don’t trust the night. The night loves to taunt and play with your eyesight. Sometimes, it tricks you into thinking something menacing is lurking within its shadows, waiting until you are distracted and vulnerable to strike. Of course, that is just superstition and parents trying to scare you into doing your homework, but still, I don’t trust the night. (Authors note: Things do lurk in the shadows of the night, that’s why it is wise to always carry a light.)

It must have been the old oak scraping across the glass again, like it does every night. When you live on the first floor, almost anything can cause shadows to flit across your window.

Cars. Cats. Bats. Dogs.

That damn oak tree.

Something moves again. Something with a head and piercing sapphire blue eyes. Not something. Someone's face. Someone's face that glanced into my room. Someone’s eyes that locked briefly with mine.

Someone who saw me.

My heart begins to sputter. I’ve heard stories about ghouls in the night who come to taunt children. I’ve heard of the boogieman and raccoons, creatures that steal naughty children from their beds, never to be seen again. Creatures with sapphire blue eyes.

I begin to heave, rising slowly out of my bed. I try to keep myself low to the ground, hoping to be unseen. There are only three people ever in the history of people who would walk in front of this window. Our neighbor, who lives next door to us and who’s front door is adjacent to our back door, my mom, and my dad.

Those eyes belong to no one I know.

I question whether or not to rush out of my bedroom door, race down the hall, and bang frantically on my parents bedroom door and wake them up. I look at the door, ready to leap. But I pause. My dad probably wouldn’t like that. Disturbing his slumber is worse than disturbing the sleep of a hungry lion or a protective bear. And I don’t want to see his eyes either in the dead of night. Trouble would follow.

Still, maybe it would be safer? I’ve heard of what happens around this neighborhood and it’s not good. The couple who lived across from us in the other apartment building were criminals, I heard my father say once. When people in vibrant uniforms and shielded hats showed up outside, holstering large weapons, my Mom hid me inside. We stayed hidden for what seemed like hours. When I asked questions, my Mom would change the subject and ask me how school was going.

I am too young for school. I don’t even know what school is.

Afterwards, we went out for ice cream.

As we drove past where the couple lived, time seeming to move at a glacial speed, I noticed their door was smashed down, crumbled into splinters of wood and metal. Papers spilled out onto the broken wooden porch, as if the apartment had thrown up. The window was also shattered, almost making it seem the building itself was crying. Crying shards of glass.

I remember another time when the kid across the street from us had half an ear missing. I was quickly hushed by my parents anytime I tried to question what happen. Why would there be someone with half an ear? Maybe she fell into a sinkhole and got nibbled by a lion. Those always seem to happen when you fall into sinkholes.

I wonder if the oak tree would fall into a sinkhole?

My head jolts up, snapping out of my daydream and into focus again when I hear someone scream outside.

I freeze, every muscle in my body tensing. Terror crawls around every atom of my body. I am unable to move. Did the ghoul take another child? Am I next? Am I safe?

Someone screams again, this time, it sounds like it is coming from the front of our apartment, past the door, and deep within the murk of our street.

My body then unfreezes and I break into a sprint and rush out of my room and into the living room, prepared to wake my parents if necessary. The living room is cloaked in more darkness, making it nearly impossible to find my way to the couch in front of the window that peers into the front yard.

“Ow!” I gasped, clasping my hands over my mouth as I realized the words are audible and not safe within my head. I lift up my foot and see a four pronged lego stuck to the sole of my foot. Legos. The spawn of evil. I brush it off and finally reach the couch. As I climb onto the it, I push the curtains back slowly, not daring to make another sound, and I slip my fingers around the sill of the window and peer out, curious if I can see anything.

The rain comes down, straight and silvery, soaking the earth with its tears. The clouds splattered across the skies in cascading arpeggios, coloring it in a murky gloom. Who knew something as colorless as water could paint the sky in dense grays and charcoal blacks.

Was someone in trouble? I thought to myself. Was it all in my head? Would I be next? Maybe it was the oak tree. Maybe it was warning me not to shame it again. You win oak tree. You win.

Flashes of light crackled across the ground, rippling in ribbons of scarlet red and cerulean blue. Fireworks. People must be celebrating. Celebrating something grownups celebrate.

Too scared to return to my room, I grab the blanket from the couch and wrap myself up into it, accepting its warm embrace. I succumb to the delirious sleep in my eyes letting the world around me slip away until all I can see is darkness and dreams.

The world fell silent again.

* * *

I open my eyes, feeling as if I just blinked. The sun's rays poke through the opened curtain, showering my face in glistening warmth. My body contorts as I stretch, yawning the sleep away with every breath. I pause, startled by a clank I hear from the kitchen. The nights events whirl back at me, almost knocking me over. I hold my breath, eyes fixated on the archway into the kitchen.

“Why aren’t you in your room?” A familiar voice barked. I let out a solemn breath. It’s just my dad. I look up to see him lean over, poking his head out of the kitchen, tossing grounds into the coffee making contraption.

“Sorry…” I say softly, yawning again. “I thought I saw something last night.”

My dad didn’t respond. The thick brown liquid was pouring out of the contraption and into his glass. I never understand why, before coffee, talking or uttering words to an adult was forbidden. But, there was a cardinal rule in my house – do not speak until coffee has been poured and drank.

I shuffle off the couch, still wrapped in the blanket, and head to the bathroom. I drift across the cold wooden floor, side-eyeing the lego, making sure I didn’t make the same mistake again.

When I come back, the TV is awake and loud. The local news anchor is muttering about the upcoming days events.

“Rain again,” my dad exclaims, his tone coated in aggravation. It has rained for days now. How can more rain be so foreign? How can it be so surprising? Before he can continue, a warning sound alarms on the TV and the anchor’s eyes shift from joyous to serious.

“An altercation broke out last night at the home…” the anchor began. I turn towards to the TV, intently watching and trying to figure out what she is trying to say, but I can’t seem to keep up. If there were an olympic sport for talking fast, she would medal in it for sure.

“…responding to a domestic violence issue. Things unfortunately escalated and…” the news anchor continued to map out the course of events that occurred last night. But all I can focus on are the numbers spread out on the screen and the pictures. All I can focus on is that house.

“That’s…” I begin to mutter, surveying the TV screen, unable to process what I am hearing. The pictures. The trees. The street. That was our street. That was our oak tree. That was…

My dad grunted, a sign that he wants me to finish my sentence. Or a sign he wants me to move. Or a sign he wants me to go back to my room, either would be a justified response.

“...our street,” I exhale.

My dad shuffles and looks at the screen. “Huh,” he sighs, “I suppose so.”

He goes back to gulping his coffee and grabs the remote control. The channel changes and people in thick southern accents begin to talk. Whatever now was on the TV, it wasn’t the news. But, the words continue to loop in my head over and over.

Last night, I heard someone scream. Last night, I heard someone get murdered.

Jay Sweeney

Aspiring Visual Identity Designer

--

2

Entreprise

Communauté

Enseigner

Mobile

Entreprise

Communauté

Enseigner