Here's a story I wrote senior year of high school
Afraid of the Dark
“What are you doing, Sara?” asked five-year-old Timothy. His large green eyes peered at his sister who was perched on the sidewalk. The sun glared down on them both, picking out the lighter highlights in their brown hair. Timothy held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, frowning at Sara’s small body crouched down near the ground, bending over something.
There was a plaintive peeping sound as Sara turned her head around to glare at him. He walked closer, repeating, “What are you doing?”
She grinned and tilted her body aside, revealing a small bird lying on the light concrete, crippled and on its side. When he was next to her, she turned back to her work. She grabbed a gray-brown feather and pulled. The bird let out a sound that could only be described as a scream: high-pitched, piercing, and painful.
Timothy’s lower lip puckered, quivering. She smiled again, a malicious smile. She watched Timothy’s face as she grabbed the bird’s right wing with two dainty hands and snapped it. The bones cracked and it screamed again, writhing and flapping its other wing but unable to move away. Tears wormed their way out of Timothy’s eyes, streaming down his face. He spun on his heel and ran from the seven-year-old, across the dip in the green grass of his yard and into his house.
The flimsy screen door slammed as he burst into the kitchen. “Mommy! Make her stop, make her stop!” he cried, grabbing onto his mother’s leg while sliding to the floor.
“Stop what, baby?” his tall, slim mother asked with a sweet smile, stirring pale cake batter in a bowl. Her jeans were rough under his small hands. He buried his face into her leg.
“The bird.”
“What about it?”
“She’s hurting it,” he whispered quietly. His mother’s smile turned into a frown of concern and seriousness. She put the bowl down slowly, clinking it against the dark counter.
“What is she doing to it?” she asked in a lower tone, prying his small body from her leg and crouching down next to him, her light brown hair falling over her shoulders as she tilted down toward him. He swallowed hard and bit his lip.
“She pulled out his feather, and then she... she broke his wing,” he stated softly, silent tears coursing down his round, soft cheeks.
“I’ll be back,” she said, leaving him alone on the cold tile floor and striding out the door. “Sara Marie Clark!” he heard her yell as she stalked across the yard. He hunched over on the floor, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth as he listened to his mother’s stern voice reprimand his sister. When he heard them heading back toward the house, he froze in fear.
His mother charged through the door, dragging Sara by the hand. As they went past Timothy through the small kitchen, Sara turned and glared at him. It was a cold, angry look, that said, “I’ll get you for this.”
“Come on,” their mother urged, jerking on Sara’s hand, pulling her away from Timothy. The young girl whipped her head forward once more, her long brown hair flying out behind her, her chin held a little higher than it had been before.
Their mother talked quietly to Sara in the next room for fifteen minutes. He couldn’t hear the words, only the soft harsh sound of his mother’s scolding. Sara didn’t say anything; Timothy wouldn’t have even known she was there if he hadn’t seen her go in with his mother. When his mother was done talking to Sara, she came back to Timothy alone to talk.
“Hey,” said his mother with a soft smile, but her mouth was tight at the corners and her forehead was creased. She squatted down next to him and rubbed his back. “I’m not sure what we’re going to do yet. Sara’s in her room right now, and I’ll talk to Daddy about it when he gets home.” She gave him a quick hug. “It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart.”
Timothy knew it would not be okay.. If her glare had been any clue, it would be worse than the last time he told on her. After that time, she had locked him in his closet and left him there while his parents were out, and the babysitter was gabbing on the phone downstairs. Despite his sister’s cruelty, the dark was his greatest fear. It managed to feel claustrophobic and empty at the same time. He had screamed and cried, banging on the door for two hours, too far and muffled for the babysitter to hear, until his parents came home. He was hoarse when she let him out, right as his parents pulled into the driveway.
“Don’t tell,” she had hissed at him, digging her nails into his arm. And he hadn’t. Now he had told, and he was in big trouble.
Sara was sullen at dinner, glaring at Timothy from time to time. He sat in his chair, barely eating and trying his hardest to melt into the floor. His parents didn’t seem to notice. His mother had told his father about what happened with the bird and they both seemed to be stewing, talking quietly and earnestly to one another, discussing what to do.
When his mother tucked him in that night, after reading The Little Engine That Could to him, he felt a tightness in his chest. This was the part he hated most. He clung to her during the goodnight hug, hoping she wouldn’t turn out the lights but knowing she would anyway. She always turned out the lights. His only consolation was a small nightlight near the door. He stared at it every night, stretching his eyes wide open until exhaustion pulled them closed.
He clutched his soft covers, pulling them up to his chin as she gently kissed his forehead.
“Goodnight, baby. I love you,” she said with a smile.
“I love you, too,” he answered quietly, feeling the fear begin to grab at his heart. She patted his soft curls and got up. The light went off and the nightlight clicked on, sensing the darkness.
Timothy stared into the light until blue spots appeared if he looked away. He curled up into a tiny ball, just watching the light, his muscles tense with anxiety. Then he heard a soft creaking noise from his door. His eyes raced to it immediately, but blue spots from staring at the light danced in front of his eyes so he couldn’t see the shape entering his room. The figure moved toward his nightlight. He soon saw small legs in a pink nightgown, a white pillow dangling next to them. There was movement as the form blocked his nightlight and small noises of effort; then the light went out.
Timothy could barely breathe with fear. He was trembling and shaking, trying to pull his limbs into his body. The floorboards groaned as the small figure moved toward him. It was dark, so dark. He had no night vision; the blue spots still followed his eyes around.
Then it was next to him. It was breathing calmly and much too near him. His sister’s voice came out of the figure,
“I hate you.”
The pillow was on top of him; he could no longer breathe at all. His arms and legs flailed about, hitting Sara, but not nearly hard enough. He was already weak from hyperventilating. He tried to yell through the pillow, but only wasted more air. The blue spots in his vision turned to black and he felt his limbs grow even slower. Then, it was all gone.
When her brother stopped struggling, Sara held the pillow in place for about twenty seconds more. His chest didn’t move at all. She took her pillow off of his face and stepped back. Smiling slightly, she tiptoed back to to her room, pillow in hand.
“What are you doing, Sara?” asked five-year-old Timothy. His large green eyes peered at his sister who was perched on the sidewalk. The sun glared down on them both, picking out the lighter highlights in their brown hair. Timothy held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, frowning at Sara’s small body crouched down near the ground, bending over something.
There was a plaintive peeping sound as Sara turned her head around to glare at him. He walked closer, repeating, “What are you doing?”
She grinned and tilted her body aside, revealing a small bird lying on the light concrete, crippled and on its side. When he was next to her, she turned back to her work. She grabbed a gray-brown feather and pulled. The bird let out a sound that could only be described as a scream: high-pitched, piercing, and painful.
Timothy’s lower lip puckered, quivering. She smiled again, a malicious smile. She watched Timothy’s face as she grabbed the bird’s right wing with two dainty hands and snapped it. The bones cracked and it screamed again, writhing and flapping its other wing but unable to move away. Tears wormed their way out of Timothy’s eyes, streaming down his face. He spun on his heel and ran from the seven-year-old, across the dip in the green grass of his yard and into his house.
The flimsy screen door slammed as he burst into the kitchen. “Mommy! Make her stop, make her stop!” he cried, grabbing onto his mother’s leg while sliding to the floor.
“Stop what, baby?” his tall, slim mother asked with a sweet smile, stirring pale cake batter in a bowl. Her jeans were rough under his small hands. He buried his face into her leg.
“The bird.”
“What about it?”
“She’s hurting it,” he whispered quietly. His mother’s smile turned into a frown of concern and seriousness. She put the bowl down slowly, clinking it against the dark counter.
“What is she doing to it?” she asked in a lower tone, prying his small body from her leg and crouching down next to him, her light brown hair falling over her shoulders as she tilted down toward him. He swallowed hard and bit his lip.
“She pulled out his feather, and then she... she broke his wing,” he stated softly, silent tears coursing down his round, soft cheeks.
“I’ll be back,” she said, leaving him alone on the cold tile floor and striding out the door. “Sara Marie Clark!” he heard her yell as she stalked across the yard. He hunched over on the floor, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth as he listened to his mother’s stern voice reprimand his sister. When he heard them heading back toward the house, he froze in fear.
His mother charged through the door, dragging Sara by the hand. As they went past Timothy through the small kitchen, Sara turned and glared at him. It was a cold, angry look, that said, “I’ll get you for this.”
“Come on,” their mother urged, jerking on Sara’s hand, pulling her away from Timothy. The young girl whipped her head forward once more, her long brown hair flying out behind her, her chin held a little higher than it had been before.
Their mother talked quietly to Sara in the next room for fifteen minutes. He couldn’t hear the words, only the soft harsh sound of his mother’s scolding. Sara didn’t say anything; Timothy wouldn’t have even known she was there if he hadn’t seen her go in with his mother. When his mother was done talking to Sara, she came back to Timothy alone to talk.
“Hey,” said his mother with a soft smile, but her mouth was tight at the corners and her forehead was creased. She squatted down next to him and rubbed his back. “I’m not sure what we’re going to do yet. Sara’s in her room right now, and I’ll talk to Daddy about it when he gets home.” She gave him a quick hug. “It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart.”
Timothy knew it would not be okay.. If her glare had been any clue, it would be worse than the last time he told on her. After that time, she had locked him in his closet and left him there while his parents were out, and the babysitter was gabbing on the phone downstairs. Despite his sister’s cruelty, the dark was his greatest fear. It managed to feel claustrophobic and empty at the same time. He had screamed and cried, banging on the door for two hours, too far and muffled for the babysitter to hear, until his parents came home. He was hoarse when she let him out, right as his parents pulled into the driveway.
“Don’t tell,” she had hissed at him, digging her nails into his arm. And he hadn’t. Now he had told, and he was in big trouble.
Sara was sullen at dinner, glaring at Timothy from time to time. He sat in his chair, barely eating and trying his hardest to melt into the floor. His parents didn’t seem to notice. His mother had told his father about what happened with the bird and they both seemed to be stewing, talking quietly and earnestly to one another, discussing what to do.
When his mother tucked him in that night, after reading The Little Engine That Could to him, he felt a tightness in his chest. This was the part he hated most. He clung to her during the goodnight hug, hoping she wouldn’t turn out the lights but knowing she would anyway. She always turned out the lights. His only consolation was a small nightlight near the door. He stared at it every night, stretching his eyes wide open until exhaustion pulled them closed.
He clutched his soft covers, pulling them up to his chin as she gently kissed his forehead.
“Goodnight, baby. I love you,” she said with a smile.
“I love you, too,” he answered quietly, feeling the fear begin to grab at his heart. She patted his soft curls and got up. The light went off and the nightlight clicked on, sensing the darkness.
Timothy stared into the light until blue spots appeared if he looked away. He curled up into a tiny ball, just watching the light, his muscles tense with anxiety. Then he heard a soft creaking noise from his door. His eyes raced to it immediately, but blue spots from staring at the light danced in front of his eyes so he couldn’t see the shape entering his room. The figure moved toward his nightlight. He soon saw small legs in a pink nightgown, a white pillow dangling next to them. There was movement as the form blocked his nightlight and small noises of effort; then the light went out.
Timothy could barely breathe with fear. He was trembling and shaking, trying to pull his limbs into his body. The floorboards groaned as the small figure moved toward him. It was dark, so dark. He had no night vision; the blue spots still followed his eyes around.
Then it was next to him. It was breathing calmly and much too near him. His sister’s voice came out of the figure,
“I hate you.”
The pillow was on top of him; he could no longer breathe at all. His arms and legs flailed about, hitting Sara, but not nearly hard enough. He was already weak from hyperventilating. He tried to yell through the pillow, but only wasted more air. The blue spots in his vision turned to black and he felt his limbs grow even slower. Then, it was all gone.
When her brother stopped struggling, Sara held the pillow in place for about twenty seconds more. His chest didn’t move at all. She took her pillow off of his face and stepped back. Smiling slightly, she tiptoed back to to her room, pillow in hand.