Paola Villacís

Short Story (March 2022)

Awake, things were always the same; safe. The window by my bedroom was always bolted shut, the wooden floor boards in the hallway were always quiet— no creaking or erratic footsteps bundling about outside by the kitchen. The sound of doors slamming very suddenly wouldn’t make me jump in a sudden fright, making me rush to the source of the noise, my pulse in my ears. I couldn’t hear the haunting sound of my fine china breaking or my shoes being scattered across the bedrooms, as if an intruder had broken in, craving to destroy my space.

Yes, awake was better. Awake things were still, and nothing could change. If I outran sleep, I could keep away the evil, hollow sound of that faraway laughter, the sharp nails of that terrifying shadow crawling across the darker corners of my house, and the creeping chill that would slither up my back and find solace at my nape.

Awake, it wouldn’t come, or at least I couldn’t physically see it. Awake, I could tell what was real and what wasn’t. Awake, the colors around me were duller, but at least I wouldn’t confuse them with the nightmares.

Asleep, colors would change. They were bright. Too bright. They hurt the senses and mangled my corneas. I always looked away, if my nightmare allowed it. The window by my bedroom was always open, letting in the fresh summer air; maybe a bird or two would perch by the glass and lightly tap the screen before flying away. My wooden floor would be thumping and slapping harshly with feet outside my room, running amok across my home. A door would slam shut, and I would have to run and chase the culprit down, making sure to demand a good reward for the sudden fright. Things would break, but none of it mattered because everything was replaceable. Things were replaceable. People, were not. My shoes were everywhere, some by the couch, others used as makeshift objects that made no sense except to one person. 

But sleep took me. It always took me, despite my valiant attempts to outrun it. Asleep, I would forget why sleep was so horrifying. 

A world slightly out of focus, just out of reach, as it always began. 

“It’s the last one, Molly; you can’t keep taking them, or else you’ll get a,” A pause to think, “Sugar overdose,” I warned, closing the lid of our cookie jar and placing it behind me. The dewy grass under us was covered by a picnic blanket we’d brought alongside our lunch. 

“There’s no such thing as a sugar overdose,” Molly’s muffled voice protested. 

“There is, look it up.”

Then, the frame focused and she was next to me, warm, happy, and 12 years old. She never noticed we were not real— that we were in a nightmare. To be fair, I never noticed either.

Molly laid back down on the blanket, arms crossed behind her head, looking up at the clouds that made every shape under the sun. She began to hum, like she did every time she was thinking of a good question to ask. My job didn’t allow me to properly sit down and talk to Molly every day, so she always used our time together to learn more, about everything, about me, about her grandparents, her mom, life. Today, I was the subject of her curiosity.

“What was your dream job, before you had me? Or, was it always to be a dad?”

I always gave honest answers.

“Nope, it wasn’t always to be a dad,” I plucked a few strands of grass absent-minded.

Molly sat back up, surprised, “Really? Father of the Year, every year at school? The one moms swoon at because he is just oh so cool? He didn’t want to be a father since high school?” She laughed because she could always make herself laugh.

“Believe it or not, he wanted to be an actor, like for the movies,” I admitted playing with the dirt under the patches of grass I’d ripped out.  My eyes squinted at her when we looked at each other. The sun had come out. 

“An actor? I never thought I’d hear you say something like that,” Molly commented, her interest obviously piqued. She rested her head on her knees, tucked against her chest, “What stopped you?”

“Life, my own fear, your mom and I getting married, my parents, a sudden pregnancy? A lot of things. It was clearly never meant to be. I’ve always firmly believed everything happens for a reason.”

“I could’ve been the daughter of, like, a Brad Pitt or something,” Molly said, seeming lost in the daydream of her own imagination. I snorted and shook my head. Molly remained slightly skeptical. 

“Seriously, why didn’t you audition for anything?” Molly scratched her forehead covered by bright blonde bangs, her hazel-green eyes looking at me through slits, as tiny as mine. The sun bothered us the same way. 

I wondered what a good answer would be, but my alarm clock blared. I frowned. Molly kept staring at me, waiting for an answer. I wanted to reply, I wanted to keep explaining myself to her, to ease her curiosity, to take her inside and put away the food and wash the dishes and help with her homework, and wake her up in the morning for school, and welcome her home afterward, and sit for lunch again the next day, and hold her hand when there was a thunderstorm, our foreheads together as the crackling bolts of electricity would light up the night sky and filter through the entire room. I wanted to hold her face as close to mine as possible, and brush the tawny hairs at the base of her neck, and feel her eyelashes flutter closed as she fell asleep beside me, her chest rising and falling under my arms, her breaths loud and strong by me an ear when the rain stopped, her rustling and her cold feet kicking my leg away. I wanted to watch her wake up, and I wanted to see her yawn from the boredom of a year-long routine. I wanted to hear the bathroom door slam shut because she was so tired she couldn’t control her strength so early in the morning. I wanted to hear her spoon clink against the ceramic bowl filled only to the middle with milk and Cocoa Puffs. I wanted to help her find her favorite light-pink socks she wore to school almost every day, and I wanted to brush her hair as she brushed her teeth lazily without even really looking at herself in the mirror. I wanted to pick her up after school and have her sweaty, smelly, end-of-day smell in the car, while she told stories about running around with friends, getting in trouble, making plans for her weekend, and asking for permission to hang out with friends. I wanted to hear her sing as loud as her lungs would allow when her favorite song would come on shuffle and laugh at her when her voice would crack horribly after a high note. I wanted to do everything over and over, and over, and over again.

Then, I would finally, finally, open my eyes, and my bedroom window was closed. My hallway wasn’t creaking with footsteps outside my door, and my shoes weren’t in disarrange. The fine china remained untouched. For a few seconds of absolute bliss, there was a pocket of time where I would forget.

I would forget Molly was gone, and I would forget I wouldn’t be able to get her by my side ever again. I would forget that I couldn’t’ track down her scent anymore or feel her warmth on her side of my bed. I would forget that her coat wasn’t next to mine on the rack anymore and that her school bag wouldn’t make me trip on my way to the laundry room. I’d forget that I couldn’t recall exactly how her laugh used to sound when she was tired from a long day, and I’d forget that her favorite cup would remain unused by the cupboard at the back of the kitchen, where I had stopped daring to venture. 

Awake, I was safe. I was safe from forgetting, so I could spare myself the heartbreak. But, sleep would come no matter my resolve, making me succumb, and so another morning would arrive, and I would curse sleep for taking me into a place where pockets of Molly existed, pockets that I could never live in forever.