The Eyes of Midnight

Chapter one

“Jess! Oh my god, Jessica! I will come back I promise, I will come back.” The figure
retreats from me, runs out of the room, slowly my vision blurs, turns to black, the sound
of a door slamming then suddenly I am awake.

A cold sweat covers my body, the bed sheets tangle round my legs constricting me. The
pillows look like they put up a good fight too. Sunlight streams in through the cracks in
the curtains. I stare at it for few seconds, then the light and heat feel too intense and I
am forced to look away.

It takes me a moment but slowly, familiarity sweeps over me and the view of my
bedroom fills me with comfort. I don’t remember my father and I don’t remember my
mother walking out on me. I don’t remember much. I remember the dream though.
The dream I always remember. I have had that dream so many times now, it’s etched
into my memory. I don’t know it for a fact, but I think the dream is the moment my
mother walked out on me.

I don’t see much in the dream, it’s too dark, too blurred. It’s more like I feel it. I feel fear
and pain. I feel the panic in my mother’s voice. It’s as if I feel my soul, my essence leave
me when she walks away. The thing about promises, they always get broken.

My memory is hazy, my head fuzzy. I know this is my room, my reflection in the

rectangular mirror upon the chest of draws tells me I am the same girl in the
photographs that line the bedroom walls. Although there are subtle differences, the
photo girl, her long black hair is wavy, sometimes tied back, sometimes plaited. My hair
is straight, sleek even though I don’t ever remember brushing it. Photo girls skin is fair
sometimes, sun kissed. Mine is pale but then again, I don’t remember the last time I
tried to catch a tan. Not that I remember much of anything.

Photo girl’s eyes are brown and match mine perfectly. That’s how I know we are the
same person. I have spent what feels like hours staring at the eyes of the girl in the
photograph then staring at my own in the mirror. Sometimes I stare too long and my
vision tunnels and my eyes appear to darken; go completely black but it goes as quickly
as it comes and I forget about it. I have more important things to try and remember.
Like what came before the dream.

I am jealous of photo girl, she smiles, I don’t remember the last time I felt like smiling.
She looks happy, she looks healthy but more importantly to me, she looks popular. In
every photo she is surrounded by people, some young, some old, friends? Maybe!
Family? Perhaps, the truth is, even though we are the same person I don’t know who
those people are, they are from photo girl’s world. That’s a world I can’t remember, all I
know is that for what feels like a lifetime now I have been alone and in those

photographs she has the one thing I want more than anything. Company.

Days have stretched by where I have barely used my voice, I go outside, to a shop, to a
park just to prove to myself people do exist outside of my solitude. Although

sometimes seeing other people, well, that just makes me feel more alone.

I wander around what I know to be my home, there are no photos of me throughout

the rest of the house but I know instinctively this is home. I walk to the living room, the
dream flashes through my mind, the glimmer of a body hastily retreating through the
doorway. If the dream is real, this is where it all happened.

The room is empty and cold, overwhelmingly so. It almost swallows me up till I too feel
completely cold and empty. So I decide to make today a day of existing. I leave the
front door and suddenly feel relieved, as though whatever burdens inside the house is

unable to burden the outside.

Chapter two

The Sun feels warm on my skin; it’s almost as though I have forgotten what a warm sun
feels like. I decide to savour the feeling and take the scenic route to the park on the
outskirts of town. I have only been to this park a handful of times, but photo girl has
been here more times than I can count. Pictures of picnic blankets and friendly faces
almost entirely cover one of my bedroom walls. In some photos she is running to catch
a ball or a Frisbee, in some she is laughing. Some of the photo’s her smile beams so
brightly it makes the rest of the photo seem dull. In some photo’s she is holding the
hand of a young man with sharp blue eyes. In one photo she looks pensive, almost

scared and in this photo she is alone.

The sound of shuffling, unsteady feet disturbs my reverie. I look up to see an elderly
and somewhat overweight woman holding two large canvas bags filled with food. She
appears to be struggling with figuring out how to hold both bags and use her walking
stick. As I get closer, I mentally prepare myself to offer her some assistance. It’s almost
as if my thoughts alert her to my presence. She looks at my face and suddenly her eyes
widen. The old lady looks frightened and confused. She picks up a pace and quickly
shuffles onto the other side of the road. I hear the faint sounds of her muttering under

her breath as she disappears from my view.

This isn’t the nice part of town and old ladies with full shopping bags could find
themselves in serious trouble if confronted by the wrong person. Still, I can’t help
feeling slightly disappointed at the loss of my first opportunity for some social
interaction in what feels like forever. Sometimes seeing other people, well, that just

makes me feel more alone.

I turn around to look at the direction the old lady was headed. She’s gone. I can’t help
feeling a little melancholy. I stand rooted to the spot, I’m not sure why. In the distance I
notice two children staring down the road. Suddenly I can relate to the old lady. I
decide loitering in this part of town could end badly for me and pick up speed a little as

I walk towards the park.

Chapter 3

The park is big, with a lake in its exact centre. In the summer the sun glints off the water
inviting you in. Photo girl likes the lake, the pictures on my bedroom wall show her
blindfolded in the water laughing with hands stretched out in front of her. A group of
girls are all surrounding her facing different directions as if they are trying to run away

and finding their attempts highly amusing.

The water doesn’t tempt me. Instead I wander in a circle round the lake reading the
placards that are screwed on the many benches that surround it. I stop when I get to
my favourite bench. From here I can see the entire lake and the children’s play park that
sits just slightly to my left. However, the view isn’t the reason I like this bench so much. I
like it for the placard that reads “In loving memory of Jessica. Gone but not forgotten”. I
have no idea who this other Jessica is, but it fills me with the hope that even though I
have forgotten everyone, maybe there is one person out there who remembers me.

I sit there a while, watching the wind blow small ripples onto the surface of the water, I
listen to sound of rustling leaves on the branches of tall trees. Every now and then I
glance over to the family in the playground. Mostly, I think about photo girl. From the
photo’s we look the same age, but I reason I must be older. My memory of her life may

be completely gone but I know I have been alone for a long time now.

The bench creaks underneath me and I feel a shift in weight, out of the corner of my
eye I see a middle-aged man sat at the opposite side of the bench. He’s in a navy suit
and is frantically searching through a shiny black briefcase. “Where is it? For god sakes!
Where is it?” he sounds both angry and agitated. I figure most people would just get up
and walk to another bench. It’s been so long since I have had a conversation with
another person that I can’t help myself. “Is everything ok? Can I help you?” My voice is
raspy and breaks a little, how long has it been since I last used it?
The man in the suit suddenly stops his rummaging and turns towards me, I turn to face
him and look him directly in the eyes; he tenses “Leave me alone, you hear me? Leave

me alone!”

I clear my throat a little “I just want to help you, let me help you” I sound pleading

almost desperate; I can hear it in my voice and feel it inside of me.

“No, leave me alone! Get away”

“But sir, please…”

“No, no, no” With that the man in the navy suit abruptly rises off the bench, his
briefcase pressed to his chest, and runs towards the park exit. I watch his movements,
formulating a sarcastic comment to shout in his direction, but I am distracted when he
crosses paths with two children. As he races by, the children turn their heads to look up
at him; startled, he quickens his run. I watch him until I can no longer see him then turn
my attention to the two children. I realise with a start that their gaze is now firmly fixed
on me. I stare back inexplicably unable to look away. The children are too far away for
me to make out their features but something about them sets me on edge. A cold chill
runs all the way through my body. The breeze across the lake dies, like someone has
flicked a switch and turned it off. There is no noise from the leaves on the trees, I can
no longer here the sound of the family in the playground. All I can hear is my breathing

becoming shallower, quicker, laboured.

The atmosphere starts to change, an icy sensation seems to grip the entirety of the
park, the sun clouds over and a sinister creeping feeling takes a hold of me. In unison
the children take slow, leisurely steps towards me. I am unable to look away until the
sound of a child screaming breaks my focus. I turn to the direction of the playground
and see a mother anxiously gathering up her two children. The father quickly collects all
their belongings his eyes transfixed in the direction of me and the two children. I watch
as they make for the second entrance of the park and debate whether to follow suit.
The other exit would bring me out towards the opposite side of town and would mean
a longer walk home. When I turn back and see the children are still approaching my

decision is made and I follow the path the family have just taken.

Relief washes over me the second I step outside of the park. The heat from the sun
radiates over me once more. I did not want to go back into the park; my experience
with the man in the suit and the children had left me feeling a little nervy. However, the
thought of returning to the empty space I call home fills me with a sense of desolation. I

start walking in no particular direction; I decide to let my feet do all the thinking.

Chapter 4
The day becomes darker and the air becomes cooler. This isn’t the kind of
neighbourhood a young girl wants to be walking around on her own at night. I turn on
the spot and start heading in the direction of home. I decide to take a shortcut down an
alleyway which appears quiet and brightly lit. I hear the dog barking before I see it. It
appears from behind some silver metallic dustbins with rubbish spilling out and onto
the street. Its mane is glossy and brown, a Labrador potentially a pedigree but its ribs
stick out and it looks weak. I wonder if he ran away or was dumped by the side of those
bins like the rest of the rubbish. The dog’s eyes fixate on me and the barking continues
until I get close. Then it whimpers and withdraws onto hind legs. I guess this is a scary
neighbourhood for even the toughest of dogs. I stand in front of the animal and stretch
out my hand to pat his head. He turns ferocious; he snarls and bites the air next to my
hand. I jump back in shock and the dog seizes the opportunity to run past me. It heads
in the direction I have just come from, whimpering while he runs. As I trace the profile
of the retreating canine, a movement in the shadows catches my attention. In the
darkness I discern the small silhouettes of two people. They say animals have better

instincts then humans, so I copy the dog and decide to run home as fast as I can.

Chapter 5
My street seems quiet, but I don’t stop running until I get through my front door. The
house is dark and oppressive. I’m not sure why but I sprint around the house and turn
all the lights on, until finally short of breath I collapse onto the sofa. I just sit there for
a long while staring at the large and sturdy wooden coffee table in front of me,
catching my breath. There are only two objects on the coffee table. The first is a faux
rotary telephone with the chord ripped halfway down. I don’t remember the moment
I decided to break the phone, but I don’t struggle with guessing it was done out of

anger and frustration. I think that phone hadn’t rung for a long time before I broke it.

The second object I find more peculiar. An ashtray, there is nothing to note about the
ashtray itself. It’s small and made from clear class. It is also empty and clean. Did my
mother smoke? Did photo girl? All I know is that, I have no inclination to smoke so the
ashtray sits there completely unused and unnecessary. Maybe the fact that I can relate
to something (even if it is an inanimate object) is the reason it still sits on the coffee

table and not rubbish bin.

I dislike the living room, usually I avoid sitting here. Tonight, I am tired and a little
anxious, so I decide to stay. I notice the remote for the television next to my leg on
the sofa. I press the standby button, but nothing happens. The television never works
so I give up on the idea. Instead I just content myself with thoughts of photo girl and
fantasies of the life I used to have. After a while my eyes start to feel heavy and I can
feel myself almost drifting away when there is a knock on the front door. It startles me
out of my almost-sleep. I practically launch myself off the sofa in excitement; I can’t

remember the last time somebody knocked on my door.

As I head towards the source of the sound I hesitate. Fear seeps its way under my skin
and my hands start to tremble. I feel shaky and panicked.

I can’t remember the last time somebody knocked on my door.

As if sensing my hesitation, the person at the front door knocks again. A loud and
rhythmic knock, one beat then two beats. The sound isn’t urgent or hurried but

demanding.

As I approach the front door the knocking ceases. I stand on tip toes to look through
the peephole. I am confronted with the image of two young children; a small boy and
a slightly taller girl. Their heads are lowered, looking towards the ground. I feel cold
metal underneath one of my hands and I realise my hand is turning the lock. It then

freezes and as if on cue the taller of the two children looks up towards the peephole.

Terror completely grips me as our eyes meet. I can hear a woman screaming, then
realise the noise is coming from me. I will myself to move, to run away but my legs

are stationary.

All I can do is to stare into the eyes that stare straight back as though there isn’t a
barrier between us. Those eyes are the most unsettling image I have ever seen. They
are completely black, with absolutely no hint of colour. They are the event horizon of
a black hole. The force of gravity in those eyes is so strong that light cannot escape it,
and neither can I. Once again, I feel my hands move towards the lock until I feel the
cold metal under my hand. Again, I instinctively pull away and finally start to step

slowly backwards away from the door.

As I pull myself away from the door, I hear a voice from the other side. “Hello, miss,
can we use your phone?”. I return to looking through the peephole to confirm what I
have already guessed. The tallest child is talking to me and somehow, she knew I was

behind the door.

“Please miss, could we use your phone? It is awfully late, and Mother will be so
worried if she doesn’t know where we are”. The child’s cool gaze at the peephole
does not falter as she speaks. Her voice is calm and confident. I don’t want to reply.
The thought of engaging those peculiar children fills me with dread. Intuition tells me
that talking to them is the wrong thing to do but desperation for them to leave grips

me. So, against my better judgement, I reply.

“I’m sorry the phone is broken; it hasn’t worked for a long time. You will have to go

somewhere else to use a phone”.

As I speak, I watch the two children through the peephole on my door. After I have
finished talking, they turn to look at each other. It appears as though they are
wordlessly communicating with each other. Then swiftly and in unison they turn their
attention back to the door. Once again, I get the sensation that they are not looking

at the door itself but rather looking directly into my eyes.

The taller of the two children responds “Please let us in! We are lost and frightened.
Please let us in.” The voice does not beg or plead, it is not urgent or panicked. It is
calm, monotone and most of all spine-chilling. In my heart I know that these children
are not lost or scared at all. Still, everything about me is drawn to letting them in. As if

under a spell I almost can’t resist the desire to open the door, but fear blocks me.

“I am sorry, I can’t help you” My voice holds no confidence or power. I know if I stand
here any longer, I will give in and let these children into my home. Somehow, I know
the consequences for me will be bad if I allow that to happen. I am unable to explain
to myself why or what they will do when they enter my home. I just know I do not
want that to happen. I check that the front door is securely locked. I do the same for

the door in my kitchen, which leads outside to the back of my property.

The sound of metal scraping against concrete shatters the silence of the kitchen as I
pull the steel framed chair away and sit in front of the small, round dining table that is
pushed against an empty wall. As I sit, I let out a low, deep sigh. Now that I am away
from the front door, I no longer feel the compulsion to open it and let those children
(if that’s what they really are) enter. Still a sense of despair pervades me and the

house.
My eyes scan the kitchen. The blinds covering the windows cast long shadows on to
the floor and the white lacquered cupboards. The windows let in a dull orange light
from the streetlights outside. The kitchen is completely free from clutter. I rarely get
hungry and I can’t remember the last time I cooked or felt like eating. After my
experience with those children I wonder if I will ever feel like eating again. I sit in the
kitchen for what feels like hours. The dull tick of the clock on the opposite wall is the
only sound to break the silence. I consider turning my head to check the time, but a

sound distracts me. Once again there is a knock on the door.

Chapter 6

I watch the clock, minutes turn to hours and the knocking on the door does not
cease. Like before the sound is slow, unhurried and deliberate. It picks at my resolve

and I almost lose the willpower to resist allowing the children entry.

As time passes the banging becomes louder. An image flashes to the front of my
mind of the two children knocking in sync with one another. Then the noise at the
front of my door quietens slightly and I am startled by the sound of knocking on the
door in the kitchen. The tone and pace of the sound perfectly matches that of the
sound at the front door. I consider looking through my kitchen window, terrified at
the possibility that are now more of those children outside of my home. I stand up,
contemplating my next move. The sounds persist and become unbearable. I run to
my bedroom and throw myself onto my bed. I put my head under my pillow in a vain
hope that it will drown out the noise. I decide to hide away in my room until morning,
thinking to myself that daylight always chases the monsters away. The sounds of

banging on the door make their way upstairs and eventually it lulls me to sleep.

Daylight brightens each corner of the room. Specks of dust float in the stream of light
seeping in through the gaps where the curtains don’t quite meet. I walk over to the
window and pull the curtain very slightly to one side. I jump and stifle a scream when I
see the children are standing on the opposite side of the road, facing towards my
home. I wonder to myself if they have been there all night? Unexpectedly they both
look directly towards my bedroom window. Once again, I get the impression that my

thoughts have alerted them to my presence.

I stand waiting for the children to cross the road and continue with their dreary
knocking, but they don’t. They stand perfectly still, their gaze firmly fixed in my
direction. I decide that today I will not leave my bedroom. I avoid the window, when

darkness falls the knocking resumes.

A few days pass and then a few more. I lose track of the days but the pattern for each
one remains the same. During the day they stand there completely unmoving, their
hellish black eyes unblinking, watching my home, at night they knock unfaltering on
my door. I lay on top of my bed and as sleep seduces me, I hear their monotone and
emotionless voices requesting me to allow them into my home. As the nights
continue, I find it increasingly difficult to refuse. I feel almost hypnotised into letting

them into my home.

During the day I sit by my bedroom window watching the children. Their gaze is
always fixed on my home. Our eye contact is only ever broken by the occasional

passer-by.

One day a woman in her late twenties walks down the road, in front of her is a push
chair with a small baby. She is smiling and laughing. I hear the sound of her singing a
gentle lullaby float up towards me. She seems to be blissfully unaware of both me
and the children, but I watch as their eyes track the woman’s movements until at last

she is completely gone from their view.

On another day I observe a frail and elderly lady slowly walking past my house. Her
back is hunched, each movement she makes appears to cause her great discomfort.
Her hands are gnarled and twisted with arthritis; her eyes are milky and appear almost
blind. She stops abruptly when she is level with the two children on the opposite side
of the street. The woman smiles to herself then steps out into the road. The smaller of
the two children moves towards her but stops when the taller child shakes her head.
Disappointment is visibly etched onto the old lady’s face. She continues to walk in the
direction she had previously been headed.

I leave my bedroom window open to help me feel less claustrophobic, to allow some
fresh air to touch my face and my room. I also hope in vain that if the children start
to speak to each other the sound might reach up through my opened window. It

never does; the children remain speechless and unmoving.

A few more days pass in complete silence. I watch a man as he walks by my house. He
is young, I guess in his late teens or early twenties. His clothes are not smart but look
expensive. Sewn on labels worn like a badge of honour, his deep blue track suit and
high-top trainers are clean enough to look like they have never been worn before.
The man is so pre-occupied with talking into his mobile phone that he is completely
oblivious to everything around him. I hear the harshness of a sarcastic laugh and his
voice is loud and clear as it floats up to my bedroom window. His demeanour and the

swagger to his walk hint that he wants to be heard and to be noticed.

“Look, just meet there in one hour. Make sure you have my money and I will get the
stuff for you. Keep messing me around and you might find yourself in a little accident
if you know what I mean. I ain’t running no godamn charity here mate! You can’t keep
getting freebies. I don’t want to…” He stops suddenly, his eyes fixed firmly on the two
children now. He drops his phone, his hand now empty but still raised to his ear
visibly trembles. All his confidence dissipated. The man stands rooted to the spot
looking as if he is unable to move. The black eyes of the children are meeting his

gaze.
Once again, the smaller of the two children steps forward. The taller child puts a hand
on his shoulder. She shakes her head. With this the smaller child turns to look at her.
For the first time I can discern a look of confusion on the usually blank and
emotionless face. The taller child turns her head to the direction of my window. The
smaller boy following her line of sight, she nods when her eyes meet mine. I barely
manage to stifle a scream. I duck underneath the windowsill to escape their scrutiny.
My legs kick out from underneath me, a crashing sound tells me I have knocked
something over, but I don’t register what it is. I sit with my back to the wall, my heart
pounding, my breath coming in short gasps. Terror once again courses through me at

the sight of those bottomless black eyes.

The days and nights stretch by in much the same pattern. At night the ceaseless
banging on my door, the children beseeching me to allow them into my home. By
day I sit by the window watching them, as they watch me. I lose all sense of time. With
each night I become weaker. I grow weary. I know I am losing the strength to resist
those children. More nights stretch by. An eternity falls behind me. Then one night as
the banging reaches a crescendo and I succumb. I walk downstairs towards my front
door. My entire body shakes but my mind feel feels numb. I slowly turn the key in the
lock. I push the handle down releasing the door slightly from its frame but do not
make an effort to open it. Instead I turn and walk into my living room, the only
illumination is provided by the orange street lights outside, which cast long shadows

across the floor and walls.

I turn towards the doorway of my living room. The two children are standing next to
it. Their black eyes are indistinguishable in the dark shadows of the house created by
the dull light outside. We stare at each other for an immeasurable moment in silence.
I have gone beyond the ability to feel terror now. It has been replaced by a level of
fear that is entirely unfamiliar. I feel a sense of dread no other person could possibly

have felt so acutely before. The taller child stretches her hand out towards me.
“No!” I scream as she steps towards me, the silence of the house making my voice
feel even louder. “Please, no!” my voice cracks and breaks as I plead. I feel the warmth

of wet tears rolling down my cheeks.

“No! Please, no” my words go unheeded as the children keep slowly moving towards

me. The taller one raises an open hand towards me. It never falters as she moves.

“You are lost Jessica; you need to be found. You are lost and we have found you” She
talks over my pleas for them to leave me alone. Her voice remains monotone but has

a persuasive edge.

“I can’t, I can’t, I don’t want to come with you”, my voice reaching an almost hysterical
pitch as I plead with her over and over again. She responds as if I haven’t spoken.
“You are lost Jessica; we have found you. Come with us.” She repeats the words like a
mantra as they walk towards me. The children come to a stop when they are just
inches away from me. My hand reaches out uncontrolled, as if some other force
controls my movements. I look to the tallest child and beg for her to make it stop. Her
outstretched hand closes the distance to mine and as our fingers touch the room
suddenly changes. It is brightly lit; my whole body is turned towards the ornately
framed mirror that hangs above the fireplace. I stare at the reflection. I see the two
children in the corner of the mirror, once more they are standing by the doorway of

my living room. There is a sick look of anticipation on their typically blank faces.

Through the doorway I can see the hall and back of my front door, which is now
firmly closed although the key is missing from the lock. I try to reassure myself that
this means I am not locked in the house with these children when I am distracted.
Distracted by my own reflection; although it is not my face, it is photo girls. The face is
fuller with the subtle hint of a tan. There is an almost reddish hue to my hair. What
strikes me the most is my eyes. Or more precisely; one eye, it is swollen and
surrounded by the black and blue ring of a bruise that is still forming. I feel a stinging
sensation on my lips and watch my reflection as I raise a hand to a deep cut on the

corner of my mouth.

“You bitch!” I jump and turn towards the sound. Recognition floods through me; I
have seen the man who stands in the doorway in many of the photos that line my
bedroom wall. Jet black hair and blue eyes that shine as his hand is draped over my
shoulder in some of the photos, in others he is placing soft a kiss on my cheek. I know
I love this person but as I look into his now manic blue eyes the only emotion, I

identify is fear.

“Tom!” his name rolls off my tongue like I have said it a thousand times.

“Don’t even try it. You’re a slut. You got off easy earlier, why do I always take pity on

you huh?” He almost spits the words out, each one is laced with venom.

“Tom I don’t know what you are talking about” sounding calmer then I feel.

“Don’t give me that! You know what I am talking about! See I’ve been thinking,

thinking about you, about your lies”

“Tom I would never lie to you, you know that”

“More lies!” he growls. “You’re a liar and a slut, you can deny it all you want but since
our little talk this afternoon I’ve been thinking and nothing you say adds up. You’ve
cheated on me. You’ve humiliated me. Obviously trying to get the truth out of you
earlier didn’t work. I need to teach you a lesson”. He steps from the doorway into the
room and closer towards me. He is oblivious to the presence of the two children, but I
look past his shoulder and see them still standing by the doorway. Their faces once

again blank, showing no trace of interest or emotion.

The overwhelming stench of alcohol brings my attention back to Tom. The smell is
strong and stale. It makes my stomach churn. “Please Tom, you’re drunk, and you

know I would never do anything to hurt you”

“You liar!” his voice ferocious; the anger coming off him in waves “you are a whore;
you are making me look foolish. I should have known you would do this to me. You
are worthless; you put yourself about for any guy who looks at you twice to make
yourself feel good; I’m surprised I even wasted my time on someone as worthless as
you. You can’t do any better than me. You need to be punished for what you have
done to me. You have made me a laughingstock” Tears fill his eyes but his expression
is wild. He moves closer so that his face is inches from mine. I reach out to touch it, to

try and calm him down.

“Please Tom, relax, your just drunk, you don’t mean any of this” I try to sooth him
keeping my voice as level as possible as panic courses through me. He takes a slight
step forward and my eyes flicker to the phone. As if predicting my thoughts he rushes
over to it and rips the cord. He throws it back down and any hope I had drains from

me as it lies there now completely useless.

He turns his attention back to me and roughly grabs one of my arms. I try not to
make any noise, but his grip is too tight and I hear a crack, pain blisters through my
arm. “Please Tom, you’re hurting me again. Please don’t do this, just let me go.” I cry

as I speak, the panic in my voice no longer concealed.

“No, I’m going to make sure you never do this again. It’s time to teach you a lesson
once and for all” His voice is mocking but has a sick, sinister edge to it. He releases
my arm and turns to pick up the ashtray from the coffee table. Its contents fly across
the room. Ash scatters across the surface of the table. Before I am fully able to
process any of this; his free hand wraps around my throat in a vice like grip. From the
corner of my eye I see him raise the ashtray up high; then bring it crashing down with
all his strength. I feel searing pain in the back of my head, feel a warm substance wet
my hair, my vision tunnels and my legs give way. Tom lets go of my neck and I fall to

the floor.
I hear the sound of the front door close, “Jess I got your message, I came as quick as I
could” I hear a concerned voice shout from the hallway. “Tom, what are you doing
here?” Her voice is closer now and sounds worried. “After what you have done to her

this afternoon you are lucky you are not in a prison cell right now”.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be bothering your slut of a daughter anymore. No one will”. My
vision is blurry, I am unable to move but I watch as Tom pushes past a middle-aged
short haired woman. I instantly recognise her as my mother. The door slams
vociferously as he exits rattling all the windows with the force of it. I try to call out to
her, but my voice just comes out as a quiet groan. The pain in my head is unbearable.

My mother becomes aware of me and rushes over to kneel beside me. “Oh my god
Jess, what did he do? Are you ok?” I try to respond but I am unable to. My voice only
able to produce low indistinct sounds; I feel my mother take one of my hands in hers.
She uses the other to stroke my hair. Suddenly she stops and raises her hand to her

eyes, it is covered in my blood “oh God jess, don’t move. I will call for help”.

“The phone, he…broke it” I manage to splutter out.

“Jess, I need to go outside and get help, I need to find someone who can help us” she
responds, her words are anxious and hurried. “Oh my god this is bad”. I am no longer
able to tell if she is talking to me or herself. My eyes close and I cough. I turn my head
to the side to and spit out blood “Jess! Oh my god, Jessica! I will come back I promise,

I will come back.”

I watch her figure disappear through the doorway and hear the door close behind
her. I hear her desperate screams for help go disregarded in the street outside. Then
all at once the two children are beside me. The taller one speaks, and her voice
sounds softer than I have ever heard. “You have been lost Jessica; we have found you.

Come with us”

I turn to look into those black eyes and part of me wants to give up and go with
them, but I resist. With the very last ounce of my strength I push away from them.

“No, I can’t go with you, I will not go with you”

“You are lost Jessica; we have found you. We have come to collect you. You can’t

keep resisting us forever. Eventually you will have to come with us”.

With that everything darkens, the world around me fades to black. Then suddenly I am
awake. It takes me a moment but slowly, familiarity sweeps over me and the view of my
bedroom fills me with comfort. I don’t remember my father and I don’t remember my
mother walking out on me. I don’t remember much. I remember the dream though.
The dream I always remember. I have had that dream so many times now, it’s etched
into my memory. I don’t know it for a fact, but I think the dream is the moment my
mother walked out on me.

I put on some clothes and head to the park. I sit by my favourite bench. The one that
is there in tribute to a girl called Jessica. I wonder who she could be for a while and
then my attention is drawn to two children in the distance, a small boy and an only
slightly taller girl. Their gaze is intent upon me. I may not be able to remember much,

but there is something chillingly familiar about those two children.

The End.