Written by: Hannah Luther
This story aligns with Prompt #77.
He’s gone, my love. He’s gone.
I tuck her curls behind her ear and pull her close. She buries her head into my chest, muffling her sobs. I rock her back and forth. Back and forth. Until I know nothing but the swaying, soothing motion and my rear falling numb on her tiny bed.
Eventually, tears dry, and her whimpers fall silent.
In the dark, I trace the outline of her face, memorizing every feature. Even with my eyes closed, I can picture every freckle, every scar, every perfect aspect that shapes her. Her freckles match mine. In her hairline, she bears a scar from when she was five and bravely dove from the swings, eyes closed as she flew, arms out as if the wind would catch her and carry her away. My fingers trace her elbow, where a scab still heals from her attempt to ride a skateboard on our driveway.
She sighs, burrowing deeper into my chest as if we could merge as one if we held each other tight enough. Little does she know that we are one, have always been one, will always be. Her curls tangle and catch on each other, twirling hints of her father.
My legs tingle, reminding me that though she is small, she is no longer the baby I carried six years ago, and I have to dig deeper into myself to find the strength to hold her. Because I must be strong, must always be the bear she declares I am. I ignore my own exhaustion, though it grows black and ugly in my stomach, beneath the coffee I would inject into my veins if it meant I could give another piece of myself to her.
I can’t remember when her nightmares started. All I know is that they came and never left. This back and forth is just as routine as brushing our teeth or whispering nightly prayers. Night after night, she cries out, beckoning me to her.
The shadow man is back, she sniffles. He wants me to go with him.
But you can’t, my love, I kiss to the top of her head. You have to stay with me.
At first, I thought it was normal. Besides, my nightmares started long before her. My days before her are distant, like another life I’ve forgotten in the dust that trails behind Mr. Sandman.
Mr. Sandman, who brings only tears to my little love.
I stare at the ceiling, at the demented stars and moons and clouds her nightlight projects. They smile down at my little love, singing joyful lullabies as though their presence alone will repel those who lurk in shadows.
She’s fallen asleep now, and I feel confident I can detach myself from her death grip and make my exit without disturbing her. In between her deep breaths, in and out, there’s a slight snore. It’s high-pitched and sounds too comical to be real. But it’s hers.
I peel and shift, peel and shift; she stirs. I’m able to maneuver her favorite stuffed animal into her arms, which she grips so tight, I’m sure the head will pop off. My hand goes to my throat as it tightens, imagining her grip on me.
As if she doesn’t have a grip on me.
But then, her breathing changes. The sweet, squeaky snore sharpens—turns harsh and deep. The hair stands on my neck as I shiver, peering over my shoulder. My little love hasn’t moved. Yet her breathing hastens like she’s running. Sure enough, her legs soon follow suit with jerks and kicks.
In the dim light of the smiling stars, I can see her grip tighten on her stuffed animal, her tiny knuckles draining white. I hold my breath as she does the same before a scream breaks free of her—a cry so loud, I still can’t believe it’s possible from a thing so small.
He’s gone, my love. He’s gone.
And our process repeats. Back and forth, back and forth.
I would give anything to take this pain from her and put it on myself. Neither of us sleeps. But I can take it. Gently, I trace circles on her back as her tears wet my shirt.
I can take it.
You have to stay with me, I whisper to her hair. Stay with me.
She doesn’t answer. She never does.
The only words I ever hear her murmur are those of fear. I never hear her call me by name or say that she loves me. Only the screams, the sobs, and the shadows.
Like every night before, hands graze my cheeks; shake my shoulders. Somewhere in the house, someone calls my name. I can hear it in the distance, but I don’t want to go. I want to stay with my little love, even as her fingers grasp me so tight they pinch my skin.
I am jostled awake.
The bed is big and warm. I’m aware of the moonlight through the window, dancing on the ceiling. My husband’s silhouette blocks my vision as he kisses my forehead, my cheek, my tears.
He brings me to his chest as I sob, soaking his shirt. He rocks me back and forth. Back and forth. Every caress and soft word pulls me farther and farther away from her, though I can still feel her pressed to my chest. His familiar words echo in my brain long before they leave his lips.
The words are an equal part of this routine but have lost all meaning to me. They lose their shape, draping me as he traces circles on my back. Words like loss or grief haunt me, as they do for him. Our hearts break in unison, filling the void between us.
It is all we have left.
With kisses, he whispers.
She’s gone, my love. She’s gone.
Hannah Luther earned her BFA in Creative Writing with a minor in Literature from Stephen F. Austin State University and now works as a freelance editor from home with her husband and two dogs. Her work has appeared in Harness Magazine, Gingerbread House Literary Magazine, CEO Literary Magazine, and more. You can follow Hannah’s work here.
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