By Matthew Spence
I wake because—
No. That’s not right.
I was already awake.
I was already awake.
The room is dark except for the thin yellow line under my door.
A narrow band, a cut in the dark. The color of old teeth. The color of light that’s been alive too long.
I don’t remember standing, but I’m at the door now. My hand is cold on the knob. The wood is breathing.
The hallway is longer than it should be. Always has been. Shadows hug the walls like they’re hiding from the light.
At the far end, my parents’ door. Almost shut. Almost. Light leaking out like honey from a broken jar.
I shut my door again. Crawl back into bed.
The light follows.
It seeps under the door. Into my eyes. Through my eyes. Hums behind my ribs.
I wake again. Or I never slept. My hand is up, shielding my face. The glow fills every space between my fingers.
“Mom? Dad?” My voice sounds like someone else’s.
Her answer comes from far away, wrapped in something thick:
We’re fine, Sean. Go back to bed.
We’re fine, Sean. Go back to bed.
A grunt follows. His voice. Or the memory of it.
I blink—
and I’m in the hallway again.
Third time?
First time?
The air is too warm. It clings to me like damp cloth.
and I’m in the hallway again.
Third time?
First time?
The air is too warm. It clings to me like damp cloth.
Their door is open now.
They step out.
Or maybe they’ve always been standing there.
Or maybe they’ve always been standing there.
Their shapes bend where shapes shouldn’t bend. Light moves inside them like something swimming beneath skin. Faces rearrange—sliding into forms I know, then out again.
“You’re our child,” Mother says, the words stretching past the edges of her mouth.
“You always have been,” Father says, and his voice makes the light swell.
“You always have been,” Father says, and his voice makes the light swell.
The smell is sweet and stale. The taste of something rotting behind my teeth.
“We love you,” Mother says, and the light rushes toward me, slipping at the corners of my mouth, my eyes.
“No.”
I think I say it once.
I think I’ve been saying it for years.
I think I’ve been saying it for years.
“I reject you.”
They recoil. Their bodies ripple like disturbed water.
Not the rejection.
The hallway folds in. Light folds in. They shrink until nothing remains but dark and air that feels too still.
I think I check their bedroom.
I think I find them sleeping.
I think.
Back in my bed, covers pulled tight, the dark feels wrong. Too complete.
I wake.
The line of light is still there under my door.
It’s always been there.
Matthew was born in Cleveland, Ohio. His work has most recently appeared in Gaslamp Pulp.
