Night Shift

Chapter 9

Something doesn't feel entirely right.

I could feel it after the crazy old man left. I am meant to be on my own, but I feel I am not.

Earlier tonight, I replenished the spring rolls and dim sums. But now there are a few missing from both. I didn't sell them to anyone. Did the old man take some without me knowing while I was staring into the nothingness that is the sky?

A chill goes down my spine. I have never hated the silence as much as I hate it now. I hate how aware I am of all the sounds that were surrounding me. The hum of the fridges, the buzzing of the old lights, the shortness of my breath, the percussive thuds that is my heartbeat.

I want to call out. Why don't I? I don't want to deal with the horrors of someone potentially responding.

But if no one responds, then I am faced with the reality – once again – that I am the only one here.

I go back into the kitchen and grab the dim sums and spring rolls from the freezer. I place them into two fry baskets and place them into the deep-fryer. The smooth surface of the oil has transformed into a bath of erupting bubbles. I can hear the food hissing and sizzling, as well as the bubbles constantly gurgling and popping.

I decide not to say anything.

*

I have never described myself as an exciting person.

I'm an only child, so there's no stories about sibling rivalry, no one for me to go to my friends and be all "ugh, my brother was getting on my nerves last night!"

I always overheard conversations that began with the question, "What's the scariest thing that's ever happened to you?" or "What's the most exciting thing you've ever done?". Everyone always answered the latter question. No one shared an answer for the former.

They were stories that I have always found to be the same – a funny memory with a friend, exciting news they've received, someone went to a theme park one time and went on the scariest rollercoaster in the world. These people were always trying to outshine the other with a better story to share.

What made these people feel the need to be better than the other? Why do we feel the need to add to the conversation by talking about ourselves, talking up a storm about how we're more exciting because we intentionally put ourselves in a riskier situation?

If I were to ever be asked one of those two questions, I think I'd go with answering the first one. A story that no one could relate to, something that people probably wouldn't believe.

My Dad died when I was seven. It was my first encounter with death. A part of me always knew the concept – your eyes closed and they never opened again. I wasn't aware that it meant I was never going to see Dad again. I don't really remember much of my grieving process. I was sad one day, and the next I was fine.

I remember getting a lot of days off from school, thinking it was the best thing ever. But Mum barely got out of bed, and I found myself to be bored very quickly. We didn't go anywhere, we didn't do anything together. I ate more pizza in those several weeks than kids I went to school with will eat in their lifetime. Mum just didn't want to cook.

She didn't want to answer the door to anyone. The phone constantly went off, and she didn't even budge.

I finally had enough one day. I was so bored, I didn't know what to do with myself. I watched every movie I was allowed to watch, I drew in every page of my sketch book, I played the same games on Mum's computer a hundred times each.

I wanted to go back to school. I knew how to get there; Mum and Dad used to walk me to school every morning. It wasn't a far walk.

I got up the next morning – I was shocked with how dark it was. Did I get up too early? Was it still night time?