Hiding in Plain Sight

“Until the day I die, I’ll never forget those glassy, unblinking eyes,” she said, pausing. Then, after a moment more of looking out of the kitchen window in front of her, she sighed and resumed cutting the vegetables for dinner.

I looked around. I’d heard the story before.

“Come on, Shirl,” I said, getting up from the breakfast table in her kitchen and moving towards the bookshelf. “Let’s talk about something else. Who are the new guy and company?”

She turned around briefly to look at the picture I was looking at. “Oswalt,” she said, “Do you like him?”

“Looks alright. Married, I’m sure, judging by the ‘ready-to-run’ look in his eyes,” I said, turning around. She burst out laughing, and I remembered why I came to see her year after year. It was that laughter. Not that it was elegant, or like tinkling bells, or any of those other mushy romantic things they write about a woman’s laugh. But it was…it was honest, like everything else about her. And after a year of breathing the lie that was my life otherwise, I would crave a whiff of that honesty.

Maybe it comes from growing up together. Technically, we only ever spent summers together. The rest of the year, we lived in two different worlds. But when you’re a kid, your whole life is that summer vacation. We never talked about the rest of the year. Just picked up where we left off, as though someone had just un-paused us. The only time that unwritten rule was broken was when she first told me the story six years ago, over a bottle of vodka and three boxes of tissues.

“Another drink, Dani?” She was standing next to me, looking at my face intently. I realized I’d been staring at the collage of painting cut-outs over her desk.

“Yes, I’d like that, thanks,” I said, smiling at her.

She took the empty glass from my hand and poured me another drink. “Why don’t you sit down? You look really tired.” She handed me the glass and motioned me to the sofa. It was a small apartment, with the rooms melting into each other. The only doors were the bedroom and the bathroom doors. I looked around again. The apartment was full of her, it was her open book.

She sat on the other end of the sofa and started telling me about what she’d planned for us for the next few days. I stopped listening again. Instead, I heard a 17-year-old Shirley sobbing. It was how the summer started that year. I’d just met her parents out on the beach, and they’d said she was in her first-floor room. I found her between the bed and her nightstand on the far side of room, hugging her knees and shivering and sobbing. I felt a sharp pain in my chest and then my heart broke. Later, as I sat there next to her having moved the nightstand more to the corner, holding her, I looked around the room trying to understand what had happened. Nothing seemed out of place.

I snapped back to the present. She was still talking about plans for the next few days, and all I wanted was to sit squeezed between the bed and the nightstand, sobbing, with her holding me close.

“Or we could just stay home,” I said.

“And do what? You hate the indoors.”

“We could talk.”

She smiled. “About what? What do you want to talk about?”

We could catch up. We never catch up. We only meet and do things together. We could talk about what happened in the meantime, I wanted to say.

“You never told me why you stopped sketching.”

She laughed again. “You never asked,” she said playfully. It made me smile.


I couldn’t sleep. I got out of bed and found myself once again staring at the collage above her desk. A portrait of the man of sorrows; a pair of hands; the feet of a kneeling man, the portrait of a Venetian woman, another old woman, a few self-portraits of an intense looking artist. And there, almost covered by all the other pictures, was a sketch – a half-finished female nude.



A Sibling Thing

They always speak at the same time. Whatever the question. Even if the other seems out of earshot. Must be a twin thing. What is uncanny though, is every single time they say exactly the opposite thing, in exactly the same voice.


More Than a Nightmare

“Lena! Lena! Elena!!”

Lena found herself back in the room, gasping for breath. She sat up straight, trying to steady herself with her hands, coughing and sputtering for air. She could still feel it – the darkness and the water closing in on her. The headlights of the car had flickered before dying out.

“You’re safe. You’re safe now, Lena,” she heard the man saying, “Here, have a sip of this.” He handed her a glass with clear liquid that tasted like burnt orange. “Feeling better?”

She nodded slightly, and handed the glass back.

“What did you see?”

“I…I don’t know.” She started to feel the panic rising again.

“Okay, okay,” he said, trying to soothe her, “Take a deep breath. Just…relax.”

She breathed in a long, ragged breath, and leaned back.

“Now, remember, you are safe here. When you are ready, just start anywhere…”

Elena took another deep breath, closed her eyes. “Think of me; think of this room to come back” she heard him say.

“I have no story to be told,” She began, “they are just…At first, I just thought they were dreams, you know. They seemed so…well, nothing like my life.”


“I mean, I live in an apartment. In fact, I’ve never lived in a house with a backyard, or a sandbox. I’d see toys, little buckets and shovels. I would wake up at the sound of a cat I don’t have. Flashes of dinners in ovens, open refrigerators, school buses…it was all so strange.

“Then, it started encroaching into my life, you know. I would have periods of time I couldn’t remember anything about, save for these images of a house with a backyard. No people. I never saw any children, or men or women. Just the house, and the things in it.

“Slowly, I started feeling things. A child tugging at my T-shirt, a man caressing the back of my neck, an ache in my stomach, a cut on my finger. I thought I was going crazy. Then it got worse.”

“You had the nightmare…?” he asked, softly.

“It was more than a nightmare. The only time that I’ve seen a full sequence of…of…,” she sighed, “I don’t know what to call it. But it was the only time it was not a series of broken images without a sequence,” she said, “And I didn’t just see it, I…” Elena struggled against the panic that was coming on again.

“Alright, alright, Lena. I know this is not easy for you. But I promise you, this is going to help. Why don’t you have another sip of this drink,” he said, offering her the glass again. “Come on, now,” he coaxed her, “just a little sip.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore. Not today. I…I can’t relive it.”

“But it wasn’t real, Lena. You said it yourself,” He said, trying to calm her down. “Whatever you saw…felt. You said, that it was nothing like your life.”

She shook her head no. It was not just a nightmare – the desperation she’d felt, the fear, the screams of agony. No. She shook her head. “No. I can’t. I just…I can’t. I can’t help feeling…”

“Alright, okay, okay,” the man said, “You don’t have to. We’ll stop. Okay? Calm down. You’re safe here, remember? Breathe…take a deep breath. There. Again…” His voice soothed her fraught nerves, and she felt herself calming down.

Ten minutes later, she was walking down the busy street in the fading light. The clouds shifted, casting an ominous shadow on the ground. The city was expecting rains, but that didn’t slow anyone down. Elena was still shaken from the session and just wanted to get home.

She looked over her shoulder. “No one is watching me,” she told herself. She had to believe that. She couldn’t keep living like this. She kept walking till she reached the bridge. She leaned against the railing and looked at the waters below her.

Her nightdress had got caught on the door stop. She tugged it free, ripping the hem, and ran to the end of the backyard. There, near the freshly planted rose bushes, she started digging with her bare hands.

Elena shook herself out of the vision. The bridge, the waters. This was real. She put on her headphones and turned up the volume till the music drowned out everything else.

At the other end, a car’s tires screeched, skidded dangerously close to oncoming traffic and flew off the bridge.


Word Count: 749