March 18, 2019
In the dank, moldering basement, where the sunlight filtered in through wires and shattered pipes, I was humming. The sound emerged from the back of my throat; my voice bearing the weight of the silence on its shoulders. Under the dust and mildew, my lungs were clogged pipes beyond repair. They hadn't changed the lightbulb in at least two years, and there's a funny thing about that blackness: it makes a liar out of you. Many people who have come and gone through this dilapidated building peer into all the black, shrouded shadows and almost trick themselves into thinking they see me. They look into the direction slightly to my left, over my shoulder, and they never look twice. Sometimes it is quiet enough that I wonder why.
Footsteps are not so remote that I wouldn't recognize the sound coming down the stairs, but when I heard the tip-tapping on stone, my gaze whipped toward the only exit in this musty place. The first thing I noticed what his clothing. I was used to the kind of grime that didn't rinse out with water. His clothing was bathed in sunlight, heat soaking the fringes of his sleeves and the wool of his coat. His knees hadn't seen the dirt of this floor. This man was impervious to invisible daggers. He stooped to see into the gloom, squinting his eyes in the sudden shift in lighting from upstairs. He drank in the seemingly-empty space for a moment before he descended further down the stairs. I drew my teeth over my bottom lip, tasting rust and crusted skin.
"Hello?" He called, then paused. His own voice was his only reply. "Anyone down here?"
I sat very still, my limbs transformed into concrete. Then, I moved a bit closer. I wanted to see how clean his skin was compared to mine. The man froze.
His eyes inched further to the right, and I knew then that he had glimpsed my huddled shape in the corner, just barely hidden by the water tank.
"I see you," he said, his voice level.
My eyes widened a fraction. They never looked twice. But this one had.
YOU ARE READING
YAWP: A Collection of Short Stories
Short StoryShort stories I have written over the past five years that I may never finish-ranging from a preacher who lied about the word of God to a little girl with monsters in her basement, these are all stories I wrote myself and may never continue. In the...
