Smooth Criminal

I sat amidst the pile of leaves, yellowed from the change of season. Wisps of hair swayed accordingly to the autumn breeze, tickling my cheeks slightly. I heard a giggle emanate underneath a bigger pile of leaves situated beside me. I smiled. It had been awhile since I had been able to.

The winter’s biting chill came all too soon after we had played amongst the leaves. It was an affair complete with hot chocolate, and the almost-embraces found when we huddled against each other for warmth. I teased you for your giggle, and you reminded me that I was smiling more often. I hadn’t realised. Smiles were still alien to me, as though a possessive spectre would overcome my cheek muscles and contort them forcibly. Soon I was leaning on your shoulder, as your outstretched arm wrapped around mine. Physical warmth was ours, but the emotional warmth that I had long sought after was found again.

Our lips met under our tree. For once, I giggled. You smiled. “You were the one I’ve always dreamed of,” you muttered against my lips, as our hot breaths merged into one. The intense heat our bodies generated left us perspiring, but chills were running down my spine. The tree which was surrounded by yellowed leaves on the ground last autumn was now in green-hued majesty. The season of birth had come, and I was birthed again in your arms.

And yet, all this while I still spared longing glances at photographs on the mantelpiece of the fireplace. My nights were still haunted by her whispers goodnight and the gentle touch of her hands tucking me into bed. My eyes still blurred with unshakeable sadness when a repressed memory resurfaces, its only purpose existed mainly to stab my already fragmented soul into a million more pieces.

But I was smiling again. You began to be the only light I saw.

The end of spring marked many new beginnings. Boxes of your things began to emerge in my home. Your scent, spicy and heady, diffused through the air of each room, even crawling into unsuspecting corners. The cold, soulless house had transformed into the only place I wanted to be in. The photographs on the mantelpiece were forgotten. The sound of your even breathing chased away the gentle touch of her hand.  Smiling was such a normal occurrence that I had forgotten how to stop. We giggled together.

But such perfect happiness was not meant to exist in our flawed world. Somewhere, a match was lit.

You were in the kitchen preparing dinner when it first occurred. I sat in the balcony with a book, next to a fan; overlooking the wasteland that summer’s drought had transformed the playground into. Perhaps it was this heat that had been the cause of my sudden relapse. Or perhaps the shadowy figure standing in the wasteland had existed after all.

My gaze turned from my book to the wasteland. There he was, next to the swings, underneath the slide, sheltering from the harsh sun. I squinted to get a better look. “It’s hot out there,” I shouted, “Would you like to come up here and sit next to the fan?”

I heard an audible shuffling of feet from beneath the slide. The shadowy figure turned to face me. His features were all too familiar; they had been etched in the recesses of my mind, pre-dating from when I was a child. His brown hair still hung, limp, on his shoulders, his face was still unlined. “No thank you ma’am,” he replied with his southern drawl. “But shouldn’t you be inside, safe,” he spat, “with your partner?”

With that, he disappeared into the realm of the shadows, where he truly belonged.
I hadn’t realised that I was standing. My knees gave way to the shock I felt, and I fell on the floor sobbing. Somehow, I still found the strength to claw at the doorknob, and made my way into the living room. I landed on the couch, and curled into the foetal position. You found me sound asleep, and gently shook me to wake up for dinner.
                                                                      *
“Honey?” you probed.

I twirled the spaghetti on my fork in stony silence, attempting to let the taste of the Bolognaise sauce linger on my tongue. I focused on the flavour, trying to repress the memory of the strange long-haired figure that had appeared in front of our house this afternoon. I gave you a shaky smile, and you noticed.

“What’s wrong?”

There were a million ways to answer your question, but instead I chose the easiest way, that is, to lie.

“Nothing,” I muttered, as I chewed the spaghetti with even deeper concentration.

Giving me a sceptical look, you stood and walked over to the sink, taking your already finished plate of spaghetti with you. “I’ll do the dishes, right?” you said. You attempted to smile, but the edges of your eyebrows furrowed.

I nodded, and continued concentrating on my spaghetti.

It was not an easy task. The rush of the water from the tap teased my focus, tearing away the solid fortress I had built in my mind. Imagine four well-constructed walls surrounding an inner darkness which was the inner void that I must not succumb into.

The darkness grew persistently, and I struggled with keeping the walls up as I heard the clank of the utensils in the background, signifying the end of your dish-washing session.

You gave me a peck on the cheek as you exited the room, probably heading to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

For a split second, my concentration wavered. And for the first time in years, all hell broke loose.

The void in my head grew into physicality. I began to see wisps of shadows emerge from all corners. The lights began to flicker.

Then all was no more. I had succumbed to the darkness.
*

“Fuck,” I muttered.

My head throbbed violently. With one hand carefully clutching my head, I slowly sat up.

As I did that, I saw the shadows shrink into an ominous blob of darkness on the carpeted ground.

You burst in the room, concerned. “Annie, are you okay?”

At this point, I noticed that the back of my head was wet. I looked to my hand for confirmation; it was covered in slick red blood.

Then I returned my glance to the carpet. What I thought was the darkness that had engulfed me earlier, was just a stain. A bloodstain. My bloodstain.

I felt a breeze caress my cheek. No, the darkness wasn’t gone yet.

“He must have come in from the window,” you said, turning to face the other direction of the room.

It was the night breeze after all. Not the darkness.

“Maybe you should go to bed, honey. I’ll call the police.”

With that, I ran into our bedroom.
*

“She’s done for,” Michael whispered.

The two figures stood side by side underneath the slide.

“You have her trust?” the man replied with a southern drawl.

“Cut that out. I can’t take Death seriously with that accent.”

“She will go like her father did.”

Michael seemed to pause for a moment, carefully thinking through the next course of actions that he needed to take. “And you swear that you’ll let me go if she becomes the sacrifice?”

He stole a glance at the man, and immediately recoiled. Death could not stay human for long. Wisps of shadows kept escaping from its form. It was terrifying.

The statement that followed was equally terrifying.

“I shall consider.”
*

“Daddy!” I laughed.

Daddy was holding Sammy bear. I snatched my teddy bear back from his arms gleefully.

It had been such a long time that daddy had played with me.

Daddy looked old now. His eyes had dark rings around it, like a panda.

He didn’t say a word.

“Daddy?” I inquired.

He reached into his pocket and pulled a small metal canister. He took a long hard gulp.

“Daddy? Are you okay?” I persisted.

That was when I saw the shadow man. He reached out to daddy.

Daddy pulled out a gun, and with a loud bang, he fell to the floor. The shadow man engulfed daddy with his shadows.

The police found me a new mommy to live with.

The first thing she asked was, “Annie. Are you okay?”
*

I screamed until my throat felt raw and bruised. Shadowman was real.
*

Michael walked into the bedroom and caressed her cheek. She screamed in torment. Tsk. The previous night’s event must have affected her still.

“You may enter, death.”

Darkness engulfed the figure laying on the bed.

With no hint of remorse in his voice, he taunted her. “Annie, are you okay? Are you okay? Annie?”

Then she was gone.

He turned to Death, whose appetite seemed satiated. “Am I free to go now?” he asked.

Death said nothing. Michael took it as a yes.

When the police had later on examined Annie Nixon’s body, she was found to have bled to death from a serious head wound. Further examination proved that this was caused when she had hit her head on the table on the night before her death.

Neighbours commented that she was mentally unstable. She had pretended to be living with a man named Michael, though they had never seen him. Depression, from her mother’s death, had driven her to insanity, they declared.

Michael flicked his cigarette, letting the ash fall on the newspaper article that he had just finished. He was still alive.

Though he had to admit, Death is one smooth criminal.

Author's note: I had written this in one single sitting, without editing. So be kind to me, reviewers!