A Flashing of Eyes
Nightfall
Three days creep by, slowly, painfully. The sun is there, then its not. My shades are drawn. Little bars of light filter through from time to time. Time itself is squeezed, flattened, and stretched to its very limit. My bed is cool and soft. For scattered moments, I can almost forget the sound of her voice, the smell of salt, the wrenching of bike tires against pavement. Then it floods back, inevitable high tide filling every crack, every crevice with memories and words until they overflow.
On the first day, I lie, my legs curled to my chest, my pajama pants brushing my chin. The black guitar case sits in the corner. Sometimes, I want to rip the instrument out of its case and slam my fingers across the strings, playing a wild, mournful dance. Other times, I want to fling it against the wall, watching splinters of wood and limp strings flutter to the carpet. I can’t bring myself to do either thing. The case stands alone.
By the second day, I can tell that my mother is worried. She brings me orange juice in a beer mug emblazoned with my old preschool’s logo. The yellowish liquid sloshes against the sides of the cup. The last thing I want to do is drink the juice, feel the weak acid burn my throat, feel it rush into my stomach. The very thought turns something in my abdomen, and I feel like I need to throw up. I force myself to drink it anyway. I don’t taste anything as I ground the pulp like sand between my teeth.
On the third day, I am sleeping, drifting in and out of time, feeling warm air touch my cheeks. Then I hear it, the phone. I lie flat against my mattress, my eyes wide. It rings again. No one else is home. Tentatively, I place one foot on the floor, then the other foot. I am out of bed. It rings for the third time. Something tells me I should answer it. I make my feet move, running to the office to pick up the phone as it rings for a fourth time.
A breathless whisper on the other line. It is so far away, so afraid. “Ellie.” I freeze. “Ellie!” The voice is louder this time, desperate. I feel my spine tingle, needles of ice in my neck. I don’t want to say the name, don’t want to acknowledge it. My mouth frames the word anyway, “S-Skye?” I hear a broken sob, an infant’s first cries as it fills its little lungs. Heavy breathing, choking. “Ellie,” Skye’s words are strangled by terror, “Ellie, she knows. She knows I told you!”
“W-what? H-how?”
“I don’t know!” she wails. I hear angry footsteps in the background. Skye gasps.
“ELLIE!!”
A scream.
A crash.
The line buzzes silent.
*******
Suddenly, I am burning inside. My breath shivers and shakes as it comes out. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. My fingers are dialing a number on the phone. I can see the number in my third eye, imprinted there against my skull. I hear one ring, two rings…
“911, what is the emergency?”
On the first day, I lie, my legs curled to my chest, my pajama pants brushing my chin. The black guitar case sits in the corner. Sometimes, I want to rip the instrument out of its case and slam my fingers across the strings, playing a wild, mournful dance. Other times, I want to fling it against the wall, watching splinters of wood and limp strings flutter to the carpet. I can’t bring myself to do either thing. The case stands alone.
By the second day, I can tell that my mother is worried. She brings me orange juice in a beer mug emblazoned with my old preschool’s logo. The yellowish liquid sloshes against the sides of the cup. The last thing I want to do is drink the juice, feel the weak acid burn my throat, feel it rush into my stomach. The very thought turns something in my abdomen, and I feel like I need to throw up. I force myself to drink it anyway. I don’t taste anything as I ground the pulp like sand between my teeth.
On the third day, I am sleeping, drifting in and out of time, feeling warm air touch my cheeks. Then I hear it, the phone. I lie flat against my mattress, my eyes wide. It rings again. No one else is home. Tentatively, I place one foot on the floor, then the other foot. I am out of bed. It rings for the third time. Something tells me I should answer it. I make my feet move, running to the office to pick up the phone as it rings for a fourth time.
A breathless whisper on the other line. It is so far away, so afraid. “Ellie.” I freeze. “Ellie!” The voice is louder this time, desperate. I feel my spine tingle, needles of ice in my neck. I don’t want to say the name, don’t want to acknowledge it. My mouth frames the word anyway, “S-Skye?” I hear a broken sob, an infant’s first cries as it fills its little lungs. Heavy breathing, choking. “Ellie,” Skye’s words are strangled by terror, “Ellie, she knows. She knows I told you!”
“W-what? H-how?”
“I don’t know!” she wails. I hear angry footsteps in the background. Skye gasps.
“ELLIE!!”
A scream.
A crash.
The line buzzes silent.
*******
Suddenly, I am burning inside. My breath shivers and shakes as it comes out. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. My fingers are dialing a number on the phone. I can see the number in my third eye, imprinted there against my skull. I hear one ring, two rings…
“911, what is the emergency?”