Short Story: Home Is Where the Hurt Is

 

The pencil tapping against the bathroom countertop was complementary to the hallow hissing of the exhaust fan overhead, tucked against sagging ceiling water stains. She sat on the counter, eyes closed, focused on breathing and tapping the metal against the cigarette-burned Formica. As she took another long inhale, she opened her eyes, turning to face herself in the medicine cabinet mirror like she was blowing out smoke from an invisible cigarette—much like a real one that scarred the almost plastic countertop with melted scorch marks.
            She couldn’t take much more of these kinds of days, the ones where she was just too tired to deal with reality, without the taste of escape on the tip of her tongue.
            The hurried pounding of footsteps coming up the stairs caused her to react. She slid off the counter, her heart pounding in her chest, twisting her hair with the pencil and sliding it into place. In one fluid motion, she jerked the door open just in time for a little girl to dart in, closing the door again and pressing the lock button with her thumb.
            Both girls glance at each other, their amber eyes colliding, mirroring each other except for their ages.
            They seemed to wait without speaking, eyes locked. The younger girl panted as quietly as possible while the older girl leaned on the wall opposite. Her eyes broke first and went straight to the door handle, and she watched, waited, almost expecting, what exactly? When the steps didn’t come, they both seemed to untense their necks, settle their spines, and melt into the floor with relief.
            They were safe, for now.
            The monsters only came out at night, the ones they ran and hid from. If it weren’t a nightly act to fight the flames and push back on angry dragons armed with razor-sharp claws, they would never hide another day in their lives, even with the dark ghouls that hid under their shadowed beds. It didn’t stop the older girl's heart from racing because somewhere internally, she knew why nothing but silence greeted them on the other side. It either got worse or stayed the same; it never, ever just went away. She wiped her palms on her jeans as the younger girl ran her fingers through her long brown hair, both staring at the tarnished brass knob as if willing it to stay still or open to another dimension.
            The house was haunted. By ghosts of the past, demons of the present, lined with broken glasses and unexplained bruises. It would probably be best if they moved from their haunted house situation, but she guessed it would cost too much to live in a normal home. One where the noise being made wasn't yelling and screaming and stomping steps up and down the hallow stairs. The monsters grew weary and would rage on and on for days while the girls would seek shelter and hope one day to be old enough to fight through the pain.
            Younger and older sat together, scared of the hall's silence and the house's stillness. They knew the monsters were there, but how long would they make them wait? The older girl wished it would just come so it could be over faster so she could lay in bed and dream dreams of no such disaster. The younger girl closed her eyes tight, hoping it all would disappear. No matter the age, they both were scared of the monsters that haunted their halls, heads, and dreams. Deep down, they knew this wasn’t normal, being haunted 24/7, because the kids at school would tell of family dinners and vacations that went so well. She would stand there quietly wondering what all they meant; by not being haunted, you could have actual family things and them not turn into haunted dreams.
            That moms and dads could be different if ghosts didn't hang around all day, reminding them of better times when the hauntings weren't a big deal and hiding wasn’t a thing.
            As the silence grew uncomfortable, the exhaust fan made an annoying hum that seemed too loud for finely tuned ears. Both girls stood up, quietly turning toward the door before stepping out as bravely as they could, the older shielding the younger. Once the switches were hit, they both darted for their door, but as quietly as they could.
            On tiptoe, they lock it behind them, the youngest in first and the oldest listening at the thin crack of light funneling in.
            A fight would have ensued any other night, with nothing haunting the halls and no yelling from the demons downstairs. Even though grateful for a quiet moment, she worried this might be the quiet before the storm but didn’t know how to stir up a haunting, so they crept to bed instead.
            But as she slipped under the sheets, her bare feet paused, hanging from the lip of the bed, tempting the ghosts from the shadows beyond. When nothing came except cold feet, she rolled until she stared at the door, at the shadow that moved underneath.
She welcomed a ghost or two, maybe a demon with flames ready to engulf; the devil could come knocking at that door. She rather anyone, anything, else than the reality turning at the locked knob because when push came to shove, she would choose fictional violence over the actual bruises she would get tonight when the monsters she calls mom and dad, pull her from her bed on another sleepless night.