Lights That We Fade In {part one}

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these are the eyes and the lies of the taken

the world is ugly // my chemical romance

• • •

  The woman wrapped a hand around her necklace to steady it and keep it from jingling as she ran. She pressed the cold metal into her palm, running faster. The night air rushed past her like a tornado of freezing wind, whipping her hair into her face and against the sides of her neck. She slowed a second, just enough to lay a hand on the doorknob and turn it.
  She stepped inside, pushing the door mostly closed, but not all the way. She stood there for a moment, eyes closed, hand still resting on the doorknob, breathing and shaking. The monsters couldn't follow her here. Then she pushed the door closed. The lock clunked as it slid back into place. She turned and started up the stairs.
  The kitchen was warmer than the back hallway, but she still shivered. She grabbed a cup from the counter and turned on the tap, filling the cup with lukewarm water. She drank about half of it in one gulp, poured the rest into the sink, and put the cup down again. Her elbows rested on the counter, one hand still wrapped around the cup, her other hand on her chest, feeling her heartbeat. She couldn't stay much longer here. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths and willing herself to warm up, to calm down. The monsters could smell fear.
  Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she opened her eyes. She took the hand from her heart and put it into her pocket, wrapping her fingers around the cold device. Without taking it out or looking at the screen, she knew that someone was outside waiting for her. She turned away from the counter, ran back down the stairs, and disappeared silently out the back door.

  Years later, a little boy awoke in that house. He opened his eyes and sat up, the cold air hitting him like a slap across the face. His eyelashes and cheeks were soaked with tears, which were drying around his eyes. His dreams had left him shaken and afraid.
  He reached out into the space beside him. His sister's side of the bed was cold. He looked around frantically, finding only the shadowy outlines of the dresser, the window, and the end of the bed. His sister was nowhere to be seen. Where had she gone? Was she here? Was she alright?
  Tears started to prickle at his eyes again. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to rub them away. Even though the nightmare was gone, the image of the monster was burned into his vision, haunting him as though it was waiting behind the dresser, watching him. He could smell its breath, see its jagged white scales and hear the way it hissed and bared its fangs. His breath caught in his throat. Was it there? Did it have his sister?
  He shuddered, half from cold and half from fear. He hugged his knees, wrapping himself tighter in the blankets. What had Mommy told him about nightmares?
  "Dreams may be all in your head, but nightmares are still a little real." She had said it so many times he could hear her voice.
  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking down at the blanket clutched in his fist. He summoned the first happy memory he could think of. In his head, his sister was grinning, her cheeks and hands scratched from the blackberry thorns, but grinning all the same. Her eyes were crinkled and her pale face shone in the sun. She was laughing, too, laughing at him.
  A cold gust of wind came in through the window and knocked the image away. A hand brushed the goosebumps on his arm. He gasped, backing away towards the wall.
  "It's me," a soft voice said, and his sister leaned forward to pick him up, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close. He felt her heartbeat underneath his cheek.
  She set him on his feet, then sat down on the floor. He crawled into her lap, wrapping his arms around her neck again and laying his head on her shoulder. She ran her fingers through his hair, talking quietly.
  "It was just a dream," she whispered, "You're alright. You're safe."
  "But you were gone," he said. "Where did you go?"
  "I'm here now, and you're here, and we're both safe," she replied. Her warm breath brushed his ear, tickling him. "The house protects us." She hugged him closer, and he closed his eyes, letting her long hair sweep over his face like a veil.
  "Does it?" he asked, almost fearfully. The monster in his dream had been so real!
The girl didn't answer.

  The woman made her way through the dark, drafty hallway. The wood floor creaked under her bare feet. They carried her from the stairs, to the front room, to the kitchen, and back to the stairs. She ran her fingers over a dusty tabletop as she paced. The table had been set for dinner once, surrounded by four rickety chairs. The woman picked up a paperclip, one of hundreds of small things that littered the place settings, and turned it over in her fingers.
  The woman pulled a chair from the table, sat down, and closed her eyes. A row of empty coffee mugs sat in front of her. She was exhausted, but her children were asleep in the other room. While they slept, she guarded them.
  The house shuddered. The woman looked up. From outside, she heard the static crackle of streetlamps and the low whistle of the wind. Inside the house was quiet. She leaned back to put her hand against the wall. She felt the house's faint pulse under her hand, but it did not shudder again.   The house was only pushing away the lights that threatened it. Even the house could barely resist the power of the lights, but it did what it could to keep the woman and her family safely in the shadows.
  A muffled sob came from the other room. The woman pushed her chair back as quietly as she could and stood up. She crept to the doorway and peered into the room. The boy cried quietly into his sister's chest while she stroked his hair, whispering to him. The room was lit by a single candle on the floor.
  He must have had a nightmare. The woman's stomach turned at the thought. Sleep was safest when one didn't dream, but the boy was too young, and too fragile, to stop them.
  She stepped through the doorway and knelt beside her children. The girl wordlessly passed the little boy over to her. He shifted and sniffled into his mother's neck.
  The woman picked him up and carried her son to the bed. She tucked herself under the blankets and held the little boy tight against her chest. She rubbed his back as he slipped back into sleep.   Although she fought to keep them open, her eyes closed, and she fell asleep. The girl slipped into the hall and closed the door behind her.
  The house's windows rattled with the wind. The girl could feel the draft, even though her mother had stuffed the cracks with rags.
  The girl entered the kitchen. She looked at the table, but sat down on the floor instead. Her mother insisted that the table belonged to the house. Anything she found in the house went on the table: coins, scraps of paper, pens, paperclips. The table had been here longer than she had. The girl didn't know how long that was.
  Like a second parent, the house had raised her since her mother had first led her through the door. She had been too young to remember. Her mother said those were times no one would want to remember, and that she was lucky to forget.
  Next had come the baby, her brother. The memories were fuzzy around the edges, but she recalled the feeling of gathering his blankets into her small arms. Those memories were bright, brighter than the house was now. Maybe the streetlamps had been dimmer then. As the lamps got brighter, the house got darker, and lights grew even more dangerous.
  The girl looked towards the candlelight glowing from under the bedroom door. Her mother had fallen asleep before she could blow it out. The girl knew she shouldn't leave it burning. Even the small light could put them all in danger. She took a few quiet steps towards the bedroom.
  The house trembled. The girl looked up. She scanned the walls. Had those cracks always been there?
  The next gust of wind rocked the house from its foundation, sending electric shocks of panic down her spine. Pieces of plaster fell to the floor and shattered as the walls collapsed. The candlelight grew brighter, harsher. The girl’s eyes widened. There was a crash, followed by a scream. The girl sprinted towards the bedroom.
  She flung the door open and immediately realized it had been a mistake. The light burned her eyes and sent her to her knees. Her head throbbed with echoes of her brother screaming. She tried to fight it away, and it contorted into inhuman screeching, pulsing through her head and her whole body. Her vision went white and her head pounded. Her chest tightened. She choked back a scream and brought her hands to her head, pressing them hard against her ears, praying for it to be over. She flung an arm out but nothing was there. The house shook, but she could barely feel it.
It seemed like hours before the light faded and the girl could breathe again. She wiped her eyes. Her whole body felt numb. The room was quiet, with only warm candlelight glowing. She pushed herself shakily to her feet.
  Everything in the room had been reduced to splinters. The window was broken. Light from a flickering streetlamp snaked its way around the shredded curtains. She stepped around the small pools of light and glass, careful not to touch them.
  Her brother was nowhere to be seen. Her mother was on the floor, still unconscious, bleeding from a gash on the side of her face. The candle was inches from her grasp. The girl snuffed it out with her hand. If she hadn't left the candle burning, this wouldn't have happened. Why had she been so careless?
  She knelt down in the wreckage of the dresser and shook her mother awake. She woke with a gasp. The girl wiped the blood from her mother's face and helped her sit up.
  "He's gone," the woman said. The girl's stomach clenched in fear of the words that came next. "The monsters have him."
  The woman stood up. She crossed the room and stood by the wall, running her fingers along the holes in the plaster. She touched the brick on the other side, but jerked her fingers back when it shifted.
  The pulse in the walls was absent. The bricks were an empty shell. The woman's heart ached. Her only choice was to find another home.
  She dug out anything that could cover her skin: cloaks, gloves, scarves. She set them in a pile at her feet as she counted. She worked as quickly as she could. Every second mattered when her son's life was at stake.
  She pulled a thin, blue piece of fabric from the top of the pile. This had been the boy's baby blanket. It had spent years in the back of the closet, but the woman hoped it still had memories of him in it. She handed the blanket to the girl.
  "Wear it under your cloak," she instructed. "It will protect you from the lights." The girl wrapped the blanket around her neck like a scarf and took the cloak the woman handed her.
  "Where are we going?" the girl asked. She pulled the cloak over her shoulders. The woman pointed to the window. The girl turned inquiringly to her mother, who nodded. The girl shuddered.
  The woman brought a hand to the silver chain at her throat and stroked her fingers along the edges of the three charms: a silver cross and two pennies. The cross had been on the chain when she found it, and the pennies were from the years her children were born. She couldn't tell which was which anymore. The dates had been worn smooth over the years by her worrying fingers. She set the necklace against her chest and pulled her cloak over it.
  She helped the girl button her cloak and pulled the hood over her hair. They were ready to face the lights, but there was something she needed to do first.
She walked into the kitchen. The floor was covered with chunks of plaster and dust. Almost nothing was left of the walls.
  She moved around the table, picking pieces of plaster off the table and replacing anything that had fallen to the floor. She pushed in the chairs and arranged the silverware so that the table was set again. She pulled off her top coat button and placed it carefully in the empty fruit bowl. Then she picked up a paperclip and added it to her necklace.
  "Farewell, friend," she said to the house. "We owe our lives to you."
  She didn't look back as she left the room. She couldn't afford to be sentimental.
  The girl was waiting for her by the door. She struggled with the lock for a minute, and then shoved at the hinge side with her shoulder. The door crumbled and spilled out onto the porch. She took a breath to brace herself before stepping over the threshold.
  Outside, the streetlamps shone, making harsh circles of light on the pavement. The woman took her daughter's hand and held it tight. The house was dead. She didn't know what awaited them outside its walls.

• • •

these are their hearts, but their hearts don't beat like ours.

To be continued.