Light

      Sitting in the coffee shop—Tim Horton’s—at the corner of the two main streets.
      She sips at a coffee. The taste is bitter. It’s gotten very cold. She’s been sitting in that store since the early morning. Early morning being about three thirty.
      The truckers hadn’t even stopped in by then. Neither had the commuters. It was just her and the two women manning the front counter.
      They didn’t bother her. Even though she bought a single large coffee over three hours ago.
      Their nametags—the two behind the counter—read as “Karen” and “Melanie”.
      They never once questioned her. Never once made a double take. Didn’t whisper when she turned away and sat down. Didn’t even both go into the back room to whisper.
      They smiled. Took her order. Gave her a free sugarcoated treat—a croissant they had glazed with frosting and chocolate—and left her alone.
      The croissant is a hybrid creation of two twenty year-olds working the midnight shift. It’s not something the Timmie’s offers.
      It’s something they were going to snack on, before giving it to another whom neither women ever met.
      As the sun climbs past the horizon, more people begin to saunter into the coffee shop.
      That’s her cue to leave. As more and more people come inside, the chances of her being recognized increase dramatically. It’s a ridiculously small town—village, more like—and it seems that every other person knows her family—her father, at the very least.
      Leaving her cold and barely touched coffee sitting on the table, she slips from the shop and stands outside, by the back of the building, away from the eyes of anyone coming in.
      She stands there for a long time. She’s craving a cigarette.
      If only, she thinks.
      It’s not nicotine she wants, it’s something else. Something more powerful. Something she hasn’t had in almost seven hours. Something to explain the wounds in her arms, behind her knees, and between her toes.
      But the nicotine curbs those cravings…at least a little—sometimes.
      She doesn’t have any more smokes. She hasn’t got the money for them—yet.
      Her eyes start to scan the ground, looking for a butt that’s got some meat left. Looking for something she can get a little drag from.
      That’s when the door opens. The Employees Only door. The big metal one that makes a loud and echoing clang as it hits the brick wall behind it.
      The door that causes her to jump out of her skin and almost crawl away, arms folded around her body, and eyes never leaving the ground.
      The conversation dies. She can only imagine what’s about to happen. She was caught looking through the ashtray of sand in the big blue barrel…with her jacket on the ground, her bare arms exposed to the world.
      She hadn’t noticed that door.
      “Hi,” says a voice.
      She nods her head in acknowledgement.
      “Waiting for a ride?” asks the same voice.
      Another brief nod.
      “Hey,” says another voice, “Do you have a light?”
      At this inquiry, she lifts her eyes. Melanie and Karen. Shining nametags in the morning sunlight. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a flip-open lighter with a Canadian flag on the front. Slowly, and cautiously, she offers the lighter.
      “Thanks,” says Karen, her smile warm and inviting.
      Karen passes the lighter to Melanie, who lights her own cigarette and inhales deeply.
      Both young woman look at the midnight owl, staring down at her jacket on the ground, trying to cram her arms deep into her shallow pockets.
      “Want one, Hun?”
      She looks up again, and sees Karen’s hand stretched out to her, a fresh cigarette held between her thumb and forefinger.
      Both Karen and Melanie watch carefully, neither woman approaching the stranger.
      If others had been watching, the scene would resemble two young women offering a treat to a stray cat.
      Finally, after hesitation and caution on all parts, she reaches forward, flips open the lighter, and takes a long and deep breath.
      Karen smiles. Melanie sighs with a little relief.
      That’s when she crouches and grabs her coat. But she doesn’t put it on. There’s no point, anymore. The bruising on her face tells enough of the story. The pin-sized bruises on her arms don’t add anything to that plot—except the sympathy context.
      “New to town?” asks Melanie.
      She smiles a little, taking another long drag from the lit cigarette, relishing the sensation of the nicotine being absorbed into every capillary vein of her body. “Nope. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
      “Really? I’ve never seen you around here. Or at the high school.”
      “Well, I live out in the farmlands. Never went to school here, though.”
      “That’d explain it,” says Karen, smiling.
      “But you look familiar,” says Melanie. “Ever work at the grocery store?”
      She says nothing for a minute. Panic swarms her. She’s been recognized. She can’t afford to be recognized. Not here, at the very least. “Nope.” The word slips from her lips without any hindrance, with calm, cool, casual confidence.
      A horn goes off, nearby. Both women look over. Karen waves.
      “Have a good day,” says Melanie, walking off toward the waiting car.
      “You, too,” she calls, smiling a little.
      Karen looks her over, the smile she was wearing fading away. “Good luck,” she says, giving a brief but warm hug, before slipping her nearly full pack of cigarettes into the shallow pockets. “Thanks for the light.”

Whispering

    Lie in bed and listen to the sounds.
    Blankets shifting. Lungs working. Kitten purring. Demons rising. Shadows whispering.
    Always whispering.
    Her breathing is soft, low, deep—asleep. Her body moves, occasionally. Limbs changing position so as not to be aware of each other.
    A long and pointed ear flicks. The blankets shift, nudge her black back a little. A head rises, two eyes blink, a pink tongue stretches out as she yawns. Two eyes disappear behind heavy lids. She curls into her herself, resting and nuzzling.
    The purring becomes soft and shallow. She, too, falls into sleep.
    Whisperings rise again. Echoed words. Dead voices. Rage. Hate. Fear. Tyranny.
    The shadows are nearly invisible. Most cannot see them. Seldom few have witnessed what is blatant. Once they sleep, the walls climb, tall as they ever were. The only protection attainable. Invisible barriers that climb and climb—trying to reach the skies above. Trying to prevent the shadows from rising and toppling it all.
    The night is their domain. The darkness is where they thrive. No matter how tall or indestructible the walls are, they topple and climb above them.
    “Bitch,” they echo. “Teach you once and for all,” they scream. “Don’t think it’s over,” they screech. “Bitch,” he shouts.
    The whispering never ends.
    When the sun’s light disappears, behind the invisible and receding line that is the day’s horizon, the darkness swallows everything. Swallows the safety, the security, the comfort, the bliss, the warmth and strength, the indelible birth. The darkness destroys all living things. Reverts life to death, growth to barest survival.
    Stand outside and the world dies. Find the walls and there’s a chance to wake again.
    Sometimes, even standing within the walls, survival is the only option. The shadows and the darkness follow some everywhere. The demons give life to others—in the shadows—with every death they cause—help along.
    The whisperings come stronger, louder. There’s no escape. There never will be.
    The soft and rhythmical breathing in the room fades. The only sounds are those from the past. Boots on hardwood. Boots on tiles. Boots on concrete, asphalt, carpeting, flesh, and bones. Wood on wood. Wood on boots. On tiles, carpeting, flesh, bones, muscles…
    The sounds are figments of an imagination. Yet the sounds are more powerful than factual reality. Sometimes the sounds take over during the day. Though it is more likely to occur when the horizon is swallowed by the shadows.
    A whimper echoes through the room. The purring stops. The soft and deep breathing catches. A warm hands touches cold skin. Soft and gentle whispers are uttered. The purring begins once more. Arms wrap around one another.
    The shadows retreat. The demons flee. The walls fall to shattered chunks of rubble and dust.
    The loud purring becomes faint and sleep enveloped.
    The muttered whimper becomes non-existent as sleep envelops another.
    Two warm arms never release as they both drift off to sleep. Safe again in the retreating darkness.