Murder at the Midnight Door

"There was only one rule: don’t open the door.”

Never taught to be afraid of my own shadow, but somehow I remain good at it. The way the dark is stuck to my heel, and how I see her dead on the ground — but she moves with me and I could never figure out how.

In the morning she is taller and thinner than me, never afraid when we are out in public. But I wonder why the others don’t see her and I don’t see theirs. Who is this person that changes their hairstyles, with teeth as sharp as sharks but in the shape of me — eyes as white as the chalk that coloured it. Who put that there? if only their mothers taught them well to colour their books and not public spaces.

I hail the taxi to take me to work. After my trip to the morgue, they said there is nothing wrong with the way you feel so deeply for the dead. There’s nothing to worry about when you wished you saw how they died, so that you could justify that it wasn’t your fault.

It’s not my fault, okay?

‘Ma’am, your stop’

‘Oh…sorry. Thank you’

Why won’t this door open? I’m sure this is the right key. They told me that I could come and clean their room and-

*door opens*

The man I murdered stood in front of me, he had a gaping hole through his chest where he was impaled by that gate. The swerve he took when I slammed into his car with my own vehicle. Did I even survive?

Oh God!

I’m burning, pins and needles sharp through my skin. The air stings the man is shrinking and my mind is exploding in sharp burst.

Denial brings suffering.