The Bad Ones

There are some days, beautiful and clear ones. The kind of days when she doesn't mind waking up at 6:30 to Mr. Potato Head's arm stuck up her nose. On those days, everything smells crisp and clean, just like the good old days when the wash was hung up to dry on a clothesline. Those days were magical and precious. She was a different person on those days. There was laughter, smiles and witty banter between her and whoever was around at the time. She loved those days. She sipped hot Lapsang Souchong and drowned in that smokey, campfire smell. Those days were perfect in every way. On those days, It wasn't around.

But today wasn't one of those days. Today was one of the bad ones. On these days, the Shadow would follow her every move. When she first had one of these days, she thought the Shadow was It. They were so much alike but very, very different. Both frightened her. Both loomed about. She would go through the days trying to distinguish one from the other. She never looked directly at either one for she knew she wasn't ready to accept the truth.

The Shadow taunted her on this day, speaking to her incessantly mostly about herself. She tried to cover her ears, hum a favourite melody over and over, anything to muffle the dreadful sounds. But they kept coming and coming, like a trail of ants you find in your kitchen after it's been raining. The Shadow was all over the place it seemed. All around her all the time. No matter where she turned or hid, the presence was there. First it started to remind her of that place. That dreadful place with all the cockroaches and mosquitoes that bit her all day and night. The Shadow talked about the Old Woman and everything that happened in that dark bungalow. The Shadow knew everything - from the dark olive walls in the guestroom with the morbid painting of a crucified Jesus on the wall, to the guava branch that left many a mark on her tiny body. As he told her the stories, the Shadow giggled and laughed as if he were talking about a funny matinee he caught earlier that day. She didn't laugh. All she could do was stare. At nothing. Now, she couldn't help but listen to the Shadow. Everything was coming back again. All those memories She tried to flush away. They were back and the Shadow was content and left. For now.

On the bad ones, she had these fantastic dreams. They were absolutely beautiful. Blood flowed everywhere and there was peace. She imagined tiny violet flowers enveloping a lush green hillside. And there she was in the middle of it all. She saw herself as a child. Sitting amidst these violet flowers, rusty straightrazor in her lap. In her tiny, bloody hands, a tattered photograph of a man. A man she knew a long time ago. A man she loved. She called him the Saviour and he was the only person who ever loved her. She woke up and the Saviour was gone.