in the dark

A. L. Smith

Every part of my skin glistens with sweat from the unbearable heat of this summer night. The sticky discomfort tempts me to shed the covers, but I will not. I cling to them, my cocoon of protection against the monster that hunts me in the darkness. My tomato-red face is the only visible bit of skin exposed, the rest of me is hidden beneath this flimsy excuse for armor. But it is all I have. Suffocation is a possibility, but I will not remove a single blanket. Not tonight. Not any night.

My eyes dart, desperately struggling to adjust to the darkness. The sooner I can see, the safer I will feel. Safe, ha! Safety is just an illusion here. A fairytale. I often wonder if she notices. My dear mother. Day after day, year after year, I wrap myself in layers thick enough for Antarctic levels of cold. Does she ever wonder why? No. Addicts rarely see beyond their own fix.

There are times when she swears off drugs and alcohol, and for a while, she resembles a mother. She is sober now. Maybe this time it will last. But does it matter? Her sobriety can’t protect me from him. The predator I always listen for, the one I pray will never return. But he does. As always, my fruitless prayers go unanswered.

Footsteps echo in the hallway. Faint, distant, steadily creeping closer with every heartbeat. My breath catches in my throat as I pray for the sound to fade. It doesn’t. The shadow under my door swallows the last sliver of light as I taste bile. Dread settles in my stomach. My heart trebles as I plead to every god I have ever heard of, desperate for protection. The shadow lingers, bringing death to the hope of a peaceful night. Stupid gods. I burrow myself further under the covers.

The door opens, no knock, just the quiet snick as it closes again. Someone is here. I can hear the soft footfalls steadily approaching. The mattress dips at my feet, and I squeeze my eyes shut, stiffening my body for the inevitable.

“No!” My voice is shrill. Loud. Maybe this time she’ll hear. Please, PLEASE!

Then I hear the best sound in the world, my mothers’ voice. “Hey Lou Lou, why’re you yelling?”

Sober mom. She reaches for me, untangling blankets and sheets as she pulls me into her arms. She is so soft, so warm. Her scent, soap and sandalwood, soothes me. For a moment, I allow myself to believe I’m safe.

If only this moment could last forever.

Right now, there’s no drunk mom, no high mom, no mom who forgets to pay bills or shop for groceries. Sober mom bakes sugar cookies, dances in the kitchen while making dinner, and laughs as she tries to figure out my math homework.

But I know the truth. She’s only temporary, unable or unwilling to protect me.

As she breaks our hug, she flicks on the light at my nightstand. My eyes sting, adjusting to the sudden brightness.

She studies me: the baggy long-sleeve shirt hiding three others underneath, saggy sweats concealing leggings and shorts. The bedding is piled up at my feet, a mountain of fabrics and colors.

“Wow. Aren’t you hot? You look hot. You okay?” Her face is etched with concern, suspicion and fear. Could she know?

No! If she did, we wouldn’t still be here. With him.

I don’t answer her. How can I?

She doesn’t press me for a reply. Instead she gazes into my eyes, her hand lightly brushing my bangs aside. So gentle.

Her tenderness threatens to break my resolve, to cry, to confess everything. The words are almost out when the familiar “what if?” starts playing in my mind. Doubt rises, then panic, and I am stuck dumb again.

She is happy. Who am I to take that away? No, I must endure.

“I’m fine, Mom.” My smile is weak, my voice wavering, but I reassure her.

Relief lights her face. My reward for silence: a bright smile.

“Just wanted to say goodnight to you, baby girl.”

“Goodnight, Mom.” My voice is steady now; my smile turned to maximum wattage.

“Love you, Louie. So… sleep tight… don’t let the bedbugs bite!” She laughs, thinking herself hilarious.

I manage a placating chuckle.

“Good one, Ma.” Our nighttime script ends.

She leaves without another glance, the light still glowing behind her. No hesitation, convinced for one more night that everything is fine, that our family is not the nightmarish wreck I know it to be.

I reach for the light, switch it off and once again don my layers of armor. Like a sentry, I resume my watch.

A sudden thought brings me peace. At least for her, nothing bad ever happens in the dark.

Photo of A. L. Smith

BIO: A. L. Smith lives in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States. She writes for pleasure, for catharsis, and to stay sane. Because of this she spends many hours of her free time each day hunched over her computer, furiously typing away and weaving the mad stories of her mind into existence.