Night, Forgotten: Draft 1

Chapter 9: Now

New, cold sunlight saturates the air in the parlor and I tuck the thick quilt more tightly under my chin. I must have spent the night down here on the davenport, alone. Greyish white powder is piled in the hearth; if a fire burned there overnight, it has long been extinguished.

Thomas's crib stands empty against the wall, except for a discarded pacifier and the garish mobile Owen has attached to the railing. Colorful, plush creatures suspended from delicate wires smile maniacally down at nothing.

One of the bobbles on the mobile catches my eye. It's a little bird, no larger than a child's fist. The way it hovers, impaled upon a golden rod, reminds me of something. The earrings Owen gave me as a congratulatory gift, back when I had a career to be proud of. I reach up and roll my naked left earlobe between my thumb and forefinger.

I still haven't found that missing earring. I'll keep an eye out for it.

Owen's footsteps come sleepily padding down the staircase. Daisy's toenails scrape the floor as she clamors eagerly behind him. I sit up, trying to remember why I came down here last night and how I ended up in the parlor.

It's not like I would have woken up hungry and come down to the kitchen for a snack; I haven't had an appetite in months.

Maybe I was sleepwalking again.

But as I rise from the davenport, a spasm radiates from somewhere in my lower belly. I press my hands against it, as if to push the pain back where it came from. My fingers mash wetly into an open wound. I gasp and pull them away, looking down at them in horror. They stick together with clods of reddish brown blood.

Then the previous night comes back to me all at once. I cringe at the memory of tripping over the fallen log and landing, somehow, on top of the grilling fork I'd grabbed as a weapon to protect myself with. How ironic.

Through the fireplace, I hear the coffee machine start to percolate in the kitchen. Cabinet doors open and close.

"Let's put you in your crib while I warm you up a breakfast bottle!" Owen cheerfully says to Thomas, who is making small hungry noises. Hurried footsteps approach the doorway to the parlor and soon Owen appears in his favorite grey sweat suit, Thomas's soft body curled over his shoulder. "How does that sound, Little Guy? Let's –" but Owen's voice cuts off abruptly when he sees me standing in the middle of the room.

His lips continue to form words, but no sound comes out. Then he stops trying and just stares.

I start talking without thinking, harshly aware of how I must look to him. "Don't be upset – I'm bleeding, but it's not that bad. I can just run upstairs and clean this up quick. There was someone in the shed last night and I saw a light out there so I just grabbed the first thing I could think of, in case I had to defend myself, but what ended up happening..." I trail off, realizing I'm not sure how to finish.

What had even ended up happening? And why am I standing here rambling like a maniac?

Owen hasn't moved. He's staring at my bloody abdomen, his expression a mix of shock and disgust. Thomas squirms slightly in his arms, but his little neck is not yet strong enough to look in my direction. That's probably for the best.

The silence makes my skin prickle so I plow onward. "Maybe I had a nightmare, or something, because it doesn't make any sense, but it was like the shed out there – it was like it screamed at me. The doors knocked me over and it just seemed like the whole shed was, I don't know." Like it was suffering.

Owen looks over his shoulder in the direction of the back of the house, as if he'll be able to see the shed from here. As if that way, he'll be able to confirm my convoluted story. Sheds don't scream, Julie.