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Dedicated to Angela Alsaleem. I hope you no longer see them.
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SHADOWS CREPT ACROSS the wall. The same shadows I’ve seen every night since we moved into this old dump of a house. I haven’t slept for a week.
In the beginning, I tried to convince myself they were nothing. A trick of the eyes in the silent blackness filling my room. I closed my eyes, and knew better, for I no longer saw the shadows slipping along the wall and disappearing into the dark corners of the room. Instead, I saw the shadow’s faces.
The female frightens me the most. She has a round, purple face. It’s as if she’s held her breath far too long and her skin craves the oxygen she denies herself. Her hair is a mess of greasy tangles. Her eyes are bloodshot. I can smell her, too. That hot, oily smell a terminally ill person exudes. Sweat and inner decay.
The male has an orange moustache. The way he looks at me forces my eyes to stay open.
I watch their shadows drift across the wall and I wonder if I’ll ever get some sleep. I close my eyes. The female holds a knife above me.
The male licks his lips.
