Out of the Dark (Light & Dark #1) (5 page)

“How about vegetable broth, Honeybee?” I ask as I turn to her, my hand clutching the can.

Lilly isn’t sitting at the table anymore. Instead, a monster with glowing red eyes and long black talons that gouge the wood of the table sits in her place. The dress with the hearts and flowers on it still lay across what are now wide-set shoulders with twisted bones that protrude from the thin material. The light shines in from the window, reflecting against the soft curls that are still on its head.

I scream abruptly and drop the can of broth. I stumble backwards as my hand reaches for the counter and the knives that I know are there. Though I will never use them on her, only me. Because life without her is pointless.

“Mama?”

Her soft voice rings true in my ears and I blink, seeing Lilly once more and not the abomination. My body sags against the counter as tears burn my eyes and my hand covers my mouth to stifle my terrified cries. Lilly’s chin trembles, and she presses down so hard with the blue crayon that it snaps in half.

“I…I’m sorry, Lilly.” I clear my throat and stand back up, willing my heart to calm down as I make my way toward her. I reach for her. “I’m sorry.”

She climbs down from the chair and throws herself into my arms, and I kiss her soft curls and breathe in her sweet smell as I apologize again and again and again.

Chapter Seven.

#7. Nightmares are now the reality of life.

Lilly sleeps peacefully in the large bed of the master bedroom. Her soft snores make me smile. The small murmurs that escape through her mouth used to make me curious, but not anymore. They are always the same word whispered through her dry lips.

Mama.

I know she doesn’t dream of me. She dreams of her real mother—the one she has never spoken of—and that’s okay. It makes me happy to know that she remembers her in some way. I’m happy that she still thinks of her. I would hate to think that she forgot her past, her family. Because that would be like losing who she was. And she is such a beautiful, beautiful soul. We have all lost too much already, but really, to lose ourselves is the greatest loss of all.

I don’t remember my family; my mother and father are both wiped from my mind. Their faces have long been destroyed by the image of their bodies being torn apart by sharp teeth and long claws. Perhaps because I am older, I cannot wash away the pain and suffering that the people I had once loved had eventually brought me—through no fault of their own, of course, but it was still too much pain for one mind to consume. So I don’t think of them anymore. It hurts too much. Instead I have a make-believe past. A family that made it to the helicopters in time and were lifted to safety. Friends that fought back and won. A husband that didn’t turn into the monster he feared, a man that didn’t kill his only child and try to murder his wife. Instead he’s off somewhere safe…waiting for me. And one day we will all be reunited—mother, daughter, and husband.

I look out of the bedroom window, pulling the curtains back ever so slightly to peer outside and into the darkness beyond. Nothing moves out there, but my mind plays tricks on me even so, telling me that there are large shapes moving from tree to tree, and red eyes glowing from within the shadows. But there aren’t. We are still alone, and safe. For now. Only for now, of course, because everything is limited now—limited life, limited food, limited safety, limited… Everything is limited—everything apart from love. Because I will love Lilly ceaselessly, limitlessly, until my dying breath.

I leave the bedroom and move to the next room along the hallway. As I do every night, I check each room and each window repeatedly, standing guard, allowing Lilly some peace to sleep. Each dirty window offers a new angle from which to look, a new view of how the monsters could get to us. This is the longest we have stayed in one place, barring the hilltop with the light on it. It has been so long since we saw them—the monsters—and yet, it is not long enough. I am reluctant to leave here, but know that the time will come, and it will be too soon.

I often wonder, in the thick of night, how many people are left in the world. I imagine stories of whole communities somewhere safe, people living lives like we once had, safe and secure and hidden away from the dangers this world has. And there are so many dangers. We had once followed a trail of breadcrumbs to what was supposed to be a safe compound. Upon arrival we discovered that it was nothing more than a dream—false whispers that had spread far and wide, filling people with hope. That hope nearly got us killed. So now I let Lilly hope, because children should always have hope, but I do not. She needs that hope to grow and continue to be strong, but that hope to me is nothing more than a cruel trick.

A long, monstrous scream breaks the silence of the night, and I press my face against the cool glass, my nose squashing against it as my eyes scan the area efficiently and take in every inch of the land surrounding us. I’m just hoping, praying, and begging to make it through another night. The scream of the monster is met with another shrill scream, and then another joins that until there are a chorus of them, singing their terrifying screams into the night sky. I imagine them, their awkward, jutting bones and their red eyes, their claws digging into soft carcasses as they feed. As they kill. As they hunt. Us.

The night falls back into silence again, but I don’t breathe a sigh of relief. I never do that. Not anymore. Because there is no relief, there is only another day, and another night to make it through, and the wish that there is another day after that one. I move to the next room. Still hoping, praying, and begging to make it through this night.

*

“Mama.”

Her voice comes to me, pushing through the fog, intruding on my dreams. I see her face, so small, so perfect, her smile stretched wide. And then it is gone, and all I see is the blood. It fills the world with its redness, washing away the monsters. But we can never be free of them, they are always here.

“Mama.”

Her soft voice alights my heart and I feel myself cry, hot, salty tears pouring down my cheeks. Tears that I have no control over, that I cannot stop.

“Mama.”

Yes, I was a mother once. To a child no older than Lilly. A little girl named Jasmine, with light hazel eyes and long brown hair. She used to like dancing to old fifties music that her grandparents played, she ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that her father made, and she liked her hair running free and long down her back, trailing behind her as she ran. I was a mother once. But now she’s gone, and so am I.

I wake with a start, my breath catching in my throat and my voice choking on my lips. I reach for my knife—the sharpest one I found in the kitchen—and I grip it tightly. My hand only has the slightest of shakes. I look down into my lap and see Lilly lying on me, her small arms wrapped limply around my waist, her head nuzzled against my chest. Sunlight streams in through the windows, hot and bright, and I plead with my heart to slow down—to calm down.

I relax back into the soft chair, placing a protective arm around Lilly’s sleeping body. She is hot and sweaty. There’s a small, damp patch between my breasts where her sweat has pooled. I stroke her hair, smiling at the softness of it, and I force myself to unwind. I yawn, feeling the long-dried tears on my cheeks, and then I purse my lips as I hug Lilly to me. I love her so much. She is not my Jasmine, but I love her as if she were, because every child deserves love.

I sit in the peace and quiet, relishing in her warm body and her soft breaths, letting the rays of the sun lay claim to my skin. I feel myself drifting, floating on a bed of clouds, lost in the peace of each heartbeat, each breath, each calm moment that we are sharing together.

“Mama?”

I open my eyes and look down, seeing Lilly’s smiling face looking up at me, and I smile back.

“Morning,” I whisper, my throat feeling dry and tight, my body still sleepy.

She blinks up at me, her small hand reaching to touch my cheeks where my tears had been. She sees me. No matter how hard I try to hide from her, she sees all of me. Lilly hugs me close without saying anything else and I squeeze her back. We sit there in silence for a long time, neither of us wanting to lose this moment—this peace that we share so equally. No birds sing outside the window, and no monsters scream for our blood. We are safe, for now. We made it through another night, together.

My stomach growls loudly, disrupting the silence, and Lilly giggles and looks up at me once more. Her small rosebud mouth stretched wide into a large smile, her eyes are dancing, like a child’s should be. Not devoid of life and innocence, lost.

“I need a drink,” she whispers.

“I need to eat,” I say.

Lilly nods. “Me too,” she agrees. “So does Mr. Bear.”

“We better get him some breakfast, then, before he gets grumpy, don’t you think?” I say, and she grins at me and nods.

She smiles and climbs down from my lap. She takes my hand as we leave the room, and we make our way down the stairs, both of us still weary from a restless sleep, but glad to be here. Together. In the kitchen I settle Lilly at the table, where she continues to color in the coloring book. The picture she has painstakingly been working on is almost complete. She ignores the blue crayon today, favoring the green one instead. I go through the cabinets and take out some of the flat pop, pouring us both large glasses of it, and then I go over to Lilly and hand her a glass. Our fingers touch when she reaches for the bubble-less drink, and we both stare in morbid fascination at the faint black lines that run down my fingers. I blink sadly, not wanting to feel sad today, but not being able to stop myself. I don’t want to die, but further than that, I do not want either of us to become the monsters that we fear so much.

I swallow and turn away, leaving Lilly with her drink as I go back to examine the cupboards while she colors, deciding on oatmeal made with water. I find a small jar of jam at the back of the many cans and packages, and I decide to use it to sweeten the blandness of the watery oats. I pull out the items, smiling as I do, knowing how much Lilly will love the jam.

My hand pauses on the jar as I think about the sweet red jelly within the confines of the glass. It exudes happiness, I decide. Lilly will like this breakfast, she’ll smile and eat happily, and things will feel normal and nice. I set to making the oatmeal, my smile fixed as I do. Because this feels good. I am a mother fixing breakfast for her daughter—a child coloring innocently. These things are simple and honest, but they are the things that you miss the most. Not expensive cars or sparkly jewelry. Not televisions and music. But the simplicity of how pleased a little girl will be to taste strawberry jam again.

I heat the oats and water on the small camping stove and when it’s ready I set the oatmeal down in front of Lilly. She stops coloring right away, setting her green crayon down and pushing the book to one side. She looks at the oatmeal and picks up her spoon, and then I place the jam in front of her and I grin. She looks at it for a long moment without speaking, and then her face looks up at me with a smile so bright it almost extinguishes the sun.

I grin wider as I open the jar, the loud popping sound as it opens makes her giggle. I spoon a large amount into her oatmeal and she stirs it for a long time, making it turn pink, but she seems hesitant to try them, to taste the pink goodness.

“Eat it now, Honeybee, or it will go cold,” I say on a happy whisper.

She looks at me with those big wide eyes that pierce my soul, and then she pushes her chair back and throws herself into my arms. I hug her tightly, another smile playing on my lips, and I kiss the top of her head, tears choking my throat. Tears of happiness.

“Come on, into your chair now,” I say. Because I don’t want to cry again today—not even happy tears.

I help her back into her seat and she picks up her spoon, eating the oatmeal with an excitable groan of delight. I watch for several minutes, leaning my cheek into my hand while my elbow rests on the table. I enjoy seeing her happiness, enjoy her being the child that she should be, that she could be. When she is almost done, I stand to go eat some of my own oatmeal. I spoon a small amount of jelly into mine—just enough to give it flavor and sweeten it a little, but not so much to make it turn pink. I want to save it all for Lilly. I want to see this smile on her face every day for as long as I can. Because all we are left with at the end is a handful of memories to brighten the darkness.

I look out the kitchen window while I eat, looking for any sign that
they
have been here in the night, but as is becoming the usual, there is none—no scratches, no blood, no disturbance outside. I smile and realize that they—the smiles—are coming easier each day. This both frightens and excites me. The tentative tendrils of hope are beginning to grow inside me, and I’m struggling each day with dampening them back down. I don’t want to hope, but it’s hard to stop the buds from blooming.

After breakfast, Lilly goes off to the bedroom to play and I pace the house, checking each room for broken windows or a disturbance of any kind. When I find none, I open the back door and take the bucket of pee from last night out to the drain and pour it away, happy to see that both of us are not dehydrated anymore. Lilly has even put on a little weight; the hollowness to her cheeks is filling out, and the big gray bags under her eyes are almost extinguished.

Perhaps I can lock us away here forever, trapped in this house’s magical safety. I would like that, I think, and so would Lilly. There is a bike leaned up against the side of the house. It’s rusty and old and has a brown wicker basket on the front. I imagine that the woman who had lived here would ride her bike into town. She would probably go to the butcher’s and the baker’s, perhaps even the post office. She would fill her days with small trips on this bike, a smile on her face and the sun on her back. On her way back home she would stop and pick some flowers from the roadside, filling that brown wicker basket up with them. And when she got home she would put them in a vase with some water and place them in the kitchen.

I lean down and pluck a small yellow flower from the edge of the path. It’s a weed, really—not a real flower—but it’s pretty all the same. It reminds me of the sunflower field I found Lilly hiding. The monsters had been scared to go into that field. The brightness of the flowers had confused them. Perhaps I can plant thousands of these yellow flowers, all around this house, to keep them out.

I bring the flower back inside, putting it next to her coloring book, and then I take the bucket back to the bathroom. I walk back along the hallway, examining the books on the shelves. I pluck one off the shelf that has maps of the United States on it, and I take it back to the kitchen. I sit down at the table with it, using one of Lilly’s crayons to mark where we are and where we have been. I use the blue, and the color looks strange against the white of the paper for some reason. Too vivid, almost as if my eyes are still growing accustomed to colors, like they have been blinded to only muted grays and blacks for too long. Like the world has been washed free of its color but it is slowly being colored back in by a little girl with golden curls.