Page 362 of Phobia

The sounds of scuffling wake me up. I rub my eyes, trying to see something through the dark. I quickly realize I’m alone.

I want to call out for my mama, but I’m scared I’ll attract attention to our hiding place.

I can’t make out anything in the dark, no matter how much I strain my eyes. A soft whimper makes my blood turn to ice. I know it’s my mama. I just know it.

I summon my courage and start crawling in the direction of the faint sounds. There is something sticky on the floor, getting all over my hands and knees as I shiver and crawl further into the darkness.

Suddenly, everything stops.

I do too.

My heart is pounding.

I try holding my breath, but it’s no use. I’m too scared and am already at my capacity to remain calm. A sudden flash of light blinds me, and I cover my eyes with my hand, smearing filth over my face.

Someone grips me by the collar and starts dragging me away. They are still holding the light and as I blink the filth away from my eyes, I catch a glimpse of my mother. I only know it’s her because of her dark burgundy coat. The rest of her slight shape is covered in blood, her head caved in, bashed with something heavy. Her bag is torn open next to her and the last of our belongings spilled around her. As I am dragged away from her, I see the trail of blood my slight body leaves on the floor.

I know it’s useless, but I cry out anyway, “Mama. Mamaaa…”

I’m shaken roughly, and a grunt comes out of the darkness. “Shut up!”

But I can’t. I try to free myself and scramble to my mother, losing the jacket and crawling away from the man. He curses and runs after me. He grabs me again, turns me to him, and slaps me. I struggle and try to escape him, horrified by his grizzled appearance – blood smeared all over his face, his breath smelling of decay, and his filthy clothes. His thick dirty hair is wet beneath his cap and as my attempt to escape him becomes progressively futile, he gains back his composure. He circles my throat and lifts me up off the ground, tightening his hold, cutting my air. I kick and cough. I grip his arm trying to free myself, but it’s no use.

I’m only six years old. A starved waif. A nothing of a person drowning in my own wet clothes.

The last thing I remember is his lips stretching into a menacing toothless grin, and his cackle echoing through the darkness.

***

I take my first breath, like the miracle that it is. My eyes are wide open. My heart is starved to feel life coursing through my veins. I frantically look around me, desperately hoping, the horrible images flooding my brain were all a terrible dream.

One quick look at my hands covered in blood confirms the grim validity of my situation. I see my mother just a few feet away from me. I quickly look away. I’m not brave enough to face the true extent of the violence she has endured in the last moments of her life.

As I look away, my eyes rest on another body at my feet. It’s the man who tried to kill me after murdering my mother.

His eyes are wide open still, permanently frozen in a horrifying grimace. The lower part of his face is missing as if torn off his head mid-scream. I should be sick, but I challenge my heart to move forward and crawl over to him. I want to see what killed him.

I leave my mother behind.

It’s just me now. I’m alone.

I get to him and see his body brutalized under the weight of numerous statues, that perhaps had fallen over him while he was choking me to death. Maybe he tripped on one of the dust sheets that they were covered in. Maybe he tipped one over and it caused a domino effect, knocking more around.

A stone arm has gone through his chest and is broken off in half, the hand rolling a few feet away. The heavy imposing slab of marbel has crushed him completely, the head of the statue missing. It is solid marbel, grey and cold. It looks very old, scratched from polishing and the touch of the believers. It dawns on me, I must be in a church.

I look around and I see it clearly now – so many angels, Madonnas, various depictions of baby Jesus, crosses, some draped in thick linens, some exposed. They are all looking down on me. The bright sunlight coming through the broken windows illuminate the particles of dust floating in the air between the statues, making them look like they’re alive. Like they’re reaching for me.

They are so old and worn from worship and cleaning – chipped paint, broken hands, damaged garments.

I know what I'm supposed to do.

I should get up and leave.

I should ask for help.

I should get someone to call the cops.

I should insist on an ambulance, even if I know my mother is past saving.I just don’t want her to be left there with the body of that horrible man.

I will do all those things, but first I need to find something.

I pace the large basement on shaky legs, slowly gliding my eyes over the floor and dutifully avoiding looking at the two bodies. I find the angel's head rolled on its side under the window, my mother got us through last night.

He’s leading me away from here,I think to myself and I smile.

I kneel by him, and carefully lift the heavy face into my arms – an angel with long hair, deep grey eyes, and pursed lips looking back at me. His eyes scream vengeance. His righteous glare comes from God. I feel it in my soul, he is giving me his strength. I hold him to my chest, even if his weight alone makes my tired arms tremble and strain, forcing me to fold over on the floor.

I’m not alone.