Prose
The House of Yesterday’s Dead
By Delfina Aguirre Paz
It was June 22, 2008, I’ll never be able to forget that date because it was the only thing people talked about on the local news for a long time. That morning, my papa had gave one of his declarations, “Whatever you give to the world will always come back to you—if you give gifts, you will receive gifts, and if you burn, you will burn.” My mama wrote it down immediately in that green pocket notebook that she always carried with her.
A little later, I saw Mrs. Davis walking her dog. I waved my hand, but she didn’t wave back, though that was normal for her. “People are strange in their own ways, Aaliyah,” my mama had told me once, and she was right.
We had also heard the sound of a soccer ball, around midday, hitting the house's garage door across the street. It was funny to see Mrs. Miller get angry at the kids. My gram and I spied on her for a little while from the living room window as she asked them to play somewhere else. Max, the Davis's oldest son, was in that group. Those hadn’t been signs; they couldn’t be. Those were just the last moments we saw them, and there was nothing really special about them.
I was sixteen—the age of enlightenment, at least according to my gram Pearl, though she always said that the number didn’t really matter. “Most of the time, nothing happens on your birthday, but during the period until the next one,” she had explained. My birthday had been in November, and still, nothing had happened.
The truth was, I wasn’t excited about the occasion. I knew very well that it wasn’t something I could share with anyone. My mother was more optimistic, which my grandmother resented. She thought if handled correctly, any gift could be useful, like my father's. What she didn’t say was that there were consequences to making that choice. This happened to my grandfather— very talented but reckless.
That night, my mama was braiding my hair, trying to shape it—it was very long and very curly. She always told me she would never let anyone straighten it, that my hair was beautiful, just like my papa’s. That night, she was trying to finish, after hours of effort and with the best of her skills, a set of braids she called “timinis,” though I called them cornrows. She had started doing my hair a year ago, when we moved from Savannah to Spartanburg. She had improved a lot—I later found out she had taken a course, though she never told me. I was patient with her because I could see she was trying, even if one or two braids ended up a little tighter or thinner than the rest.
Gran sighed when she saw my mama’s finished work after practically the entire day.
“Mariana, honey, you are getting really good at this,” she said, her tone full of concentration as she carefully examined each row of braids. “I’ll do your baby hairs after dinner, my Liyah. Now go help your papa!”
When I walked to the kitchen, my dad stopped me saying, “You ain't touching any pots, Sugar. Go set the table for me”. When he cooked, the entire space had to be his—he was a perfectionist, as someone with his abilities should be, the same ones I would inherit. Despite his insistence, I set the table—first my grandmother’s tablecloths, then the glasses, followed by the napkins and silverware. There were only going to be four of us, but we always used the formal dining room—it was prettier and gave us space to play board games after dinner, like a dessert.
That night’s game started before dinner and ended without plates on the table—because I had dropped them on the floor.
I had seen it so clearly that I didn’t believe it when my dad said there was nothing there. It was a woman—I couldn’t see her face; it was hidden among the flames. And yet, she didn’t writhe in pain. She just screamed, like an alarm or an animal—maybe comparable to an eagle, though really, there was no sound I knew that could compare. It was pure pain and suffering, transformed into a frequency that couldn’t belong to this world but to the one from which my papa’s declarations came.
I screamed in terror because she wouldn’t leave, and now it wasn’t just her burning—it was our house. The house was collapsing; it would fall on us after filling our lungs with the black human ash rising from that incorporeal woman’s body.
Then my grandmother screamed from the yard: “It’s burning! The Davis’ house is burning!”
The vision, the enlightenment— didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. My body was shaking as if I were cold, but all I could see was the fire, the wood disintegrating, the smoke flooding the hallways like a tsunami of black water coming down from the upper floor.
I remembered my dad’s words from that morning as we ran out of the house, untouched by the flames of my vision. Our yard connected to the Davis' yard, so we could see the fire growing inside. The firefighters’ sirens arrived quickly, and I was grateful for the loud sound and flashing lights because they made me realize where I was—not inside the house, but in front of it, barefoot, surrounded by worried neighbors, some gossiping, most of them in shock, and I was no different.
There was an explosion—I knew it had come from the kitchen—and the house finally collapsed. If not for the rain, that fire would have spread to other houses, but it didn’t.
I saw Mr. Davis holding a baby in his arms, but Max and Mrs. Davis were nowhere to be found. The man was devastated, in shock, as if he had seen a ghost too.
I didn’t sleep that night. The woman, now black and charred like a spent match, watched me from the corner of my room until the sunlight passed through the curtains of my window.
It was Mrs. Davis—I knew it from beneath my ribs and the sharp pain in the middle of my chest, the sign of terror, and I didn’t know if it was entirely mine or hers.
I looked out my window. The smell of smoke and burned wood still lingered in the air. I looked toward the destroyed house, and there, among the darkened grass and shattered glass of a window, was Max—wearing his Clemson t-shirt and pajama pants, both stained black. His disfigured face left no doubt that his death had been slow, painful, and given with cruelty by a punishing god.
I was never able to stop seeing them. Every day, when I passed in front of the house, especially on the cold winter mornings, I could see Mrs. Davis standing among the ruins, now so silent. And when I walked to the neighborhood entrance to wait for the school bus, I could hear Max’s timid footsteps behind me.
What crime could a child have committed to deserve such hatred? Because that’s what it was—hatred and vengeance. From the morning after the fire, I knew their taste—sweet and cold. I could feel them in the air around me, and they never went away.
To Buy or Not to Buy
By Anna McDonald
Formerly, if someone had asked Todd if he felt all right, he would have smiled and nodded cheerily. However, that answer had changed over the past three days. Scrolling through the Amazon website, Todd was wide-eyed and wired. He searched desperately for the product he was compelled to review. Then, lo and behold, he found it. The 5-Hour Energy: Extra Energy drink. He passionately clicked his mouse thrice and began writing at a speed faster than Usain Bolt could ever imagine. While he could simply relay his story to his family, friends, or possibly his therapist, he would instead resolve to warn the world of Amazon customers: “People of Amazon, harken to my call! Do not, I repeat, do not purchase a pack of these bottles and drink them in one sitting. Allow me to explain. I am a college student. My roommate and I recently were up extremely late working on a project that was due within the week for a final evaluation of ours, which is already a horrible situation in which to find oneself. We were becoming quite anxious and stressed about finishing it well. In a moment of total and complete slap-happy nature, as it was 2:00 A.M., my buddy Brandon and I had the revolutionary yet idiotic idea to order twelve of these tiny devil-juices and drink them all at once. For two broke juniors with insanely low stamina, high energy seemed like the most reasonable solution to our problems. Therefore, we, supremely satisfied with our own wittiness, eagerly purchased our elixirs of altered alertness. Little did we know the calamity that would ensue because of our rash middle-of-the-night decision. Please, we beg you, learn from our mistake.
“The next day, the package arrived. It was a lazy Saturday, which meant we had no classes or immediate obligations, as the assignment deadline was still four days away. In fact, we had nearly forgotten we had ordered the pocket-sized pods of pandemonium. We tore open the box. The anticipation was strangely palpable. Brandon and I locked eyes. It felt reminiscent of an epic moment in a Western film, when two cowboys stand in the middle of town, each laying a hand over his holster, ready to draw swiftly. That moment was the last time I remember what sanity felt like, if I ever had truly known it at all. My crazy roommate and I tipped back each tiny bottle like a shot, till that shot shot through us. By bottle number three, my head was swirling. As I set down the sixth bottle, I experienced a sensation that I can only compare to how Thor appears in Endgame surrounded by lightning or maybe how Spiderman feels when the radioactive spider bites him. The surge of power was too much to bear. Invigorated, I whooped loudly. Brandon downed his last bottle and stared at me. He looked as crazed as a rabid hyena. He grinned like the Cheshire Cat: ominous, devious, and slightly maniacal. It was absolutely terrifying. When the mailman delivered our package that Saturday, he had unknowingly deposited 72 hours’ worth of blooming, blatant brouhaha onto our doorstep.
“During the next mind-numbing hours, which flashed by in a blur, the lunatic liquid prompted Brandon and me to increasingly grow more awake, more alive, and, sadly, more stupid. Subsequently, we suddenly had the courage, dare I say the need, to cross several items off of our bucket list, which we had previously procrastinated. At 3 P.M., we sprinted around campus twice, rarely stopping and barely out of breath. Impressively, Brandon walked on his hands back to the dorm while I less-than-gracefully cartwheeled all the way home. When we returned, we made the largest and most astounding fort in the history of forts and gamed until sunrise. On Sunday morning, we tag-teamed in cornering our other roommate, Troy, by bouncing on his bed for the better part of two hours, screeching like eagles and flapping our arms like them, too. Once Troy was severely traumatized, cowering in the corner, Brandon and I formed the maddest, most ingeniously idiotic plan that we had thought of that day. The energy elixir was fully penetrating our brains at this point. A scant twenty minutes later, Brandon’s skateboard was roped to the back of my Ford truck. He donned a helmet merely because of the rules of our college. If it were up to us, that helmet would have been thrown away more quickly than the courage in Brandon’s body just before he slammed into the ginormous oak tree by the student center. He soldiered on, though. He walked off his possible and probable concussion, so now it was my turn. Unfortunately, after my few minutes of glory, whooping, waving, and riding through the streets, Brandon decided to turn left. Do you remember how I mentioned that we screeched like eagles earlier? Well, now I flew like one. I think that it is safe to say that my tailbone is cracked, but my pride is not in the slightest. In fact, Brandon and I returned to our dorm like kings, albeit kings who looked like they had seen the front lines of war. I stretched and flinched. Every body part felt sore. Good Humans, learn from now-conscious me. My energy rush wore off an hour ago, and so did the adrenaline. I am undoubtedly in the most pain I have ever been subjected to in my life. Although granted, that was also the most fun I have ever had in my life. The aftereffects are like a hangover, but much worse. I have not slept in 72 hours and feel like I might be sick at any moment. However, if you decide to embark on this journey – because trust me, it is one – please do it safely and purchase only one or two of these chaos-inducing drinks. Brandon, who is currently tearing about at top speed through the dorm, still has extra energy, and I am currently hiding from him in my room with the door barricaded. Amazon Customers, this product is dangerous in copious quantities, and that means any number over one.” Todd sat back. His fingers were tired, and so was he. He closed his eyes and sighed, resolving to stick to the simple coffee and sugar caffeine boost of his wiser peers.
An Elevator Operator’s Day
By Caroline Austen
Iron the jacket. Shine the shoes. Tighten the tie. Grab the hat. Fix the gloves. Open the door, and time to leave.
Sounds of happy footsteps echo throughout the building. It’s a city of voices like every day. Laughter and chatter just out of sight. Busy people strolled past to their destinations without even a single nod to others. No need to interfere now. They will soon come and crowd around like bears to honey.
Pass through the crowded rooms and head to the staff halls. Grab a schedule and inhale a plated meal. Chat with others just before it’s time to leave. A simple wave goodbye, and it’s time to start.
Down the hall, away from the crowds, towards the golden gates and polished walls. A box of mirrors and buttons to operate all day long. Pocket watch at the ready and gates spring open.
The clock strikes 8.
The first group of people arrives.
A man and woman, both eye-catching and animated, with a child in the woman’s arms. The child, chubby and small, had an air of apathy in the pools of mahogany called eyes. Mother worshiped Father’s beaming smile and leaned closer to him. And yet, Father couldn’t keep his eyes off his freshly ironed suit and polished shoes. He even gushed over a shimmering golden pocket watch. The child, too young to speak, stared at the rhythmic descent of floors.
“Not in front of the elevator operator.” Father chuckled, a strained huff, as Mother started dotting on his dirty face.
“You made a mess of yourself. We can’t go to the party if you are a mess.” She used her lovely silk handkerchief to wipe some cream off his face. “Your handsome face will be the focus of the party.”
“I can clean myself up before we enter Aunt Matilda's place. No need to worry.”
“I am just looking out for you. It would be a shame if you spoiled your handsome suit already.”
Father’s face beamed, and he fixed his suit once more. “A wonderful suit, isn't it? Spotless and stiff. A perfect outfit for a man like me.”
“Yes, of course! A lovely suit for a handsome man.” Mother ran a hand across Father’s arm. “I couldn’t see you wearing anything else.”
“Exactly! I’ll need to ask Aunt Matilda for more next time. After all, she can’t resist my pretty face.” He beamed at himself in the mirror.
The young child stared at Mother’s wide smile. And yet, the mahogany pools never smiled. The child turned back to watching the flying floor numbers.
“Just imagine.” He held Mother close to him as he waved his hand. “Suits and hotels like this every day! Just wait until the business booms. I’ll be living like a king!”
“That is all well and wonderful, but we still need to be mindful of Aunt Matilda. If she finds out what we have done-”
“Bah! You and your worthless rants.” A dismissive wave. “Aunt Matilda favors me more than my brother. She’d never care if she found out. She’d yell and belittle my brother if he tried, but she’d turn a blind eye towards me.”
Mother’s lips twitched and fell as she turned away from the mirror, hiding her pretty face from Father. Her eyes glistened, and her breath hitched. Her hazel eyes darted about, avoiding the ebony eyes of Father. Not a single tear fell down her powdered cheeks.
“Straight up, woman. Stop slouching.” Father snapped at Mother, his eyes never leaving his reflection. “Slouch again, and you risk them finding out the truth. You’re always so incompetent at the slightest act.”
Mother obeyed as if whipped by Father’s words. She quickly straightened up and fixed her iridescent pearls. A shudder ran down her spine as she tried to take a calming breath. She took a step back to tend to the child’s messy hair, albeit sluggishly. Not once did she look at Father again as her body stiffened.
Father paid no more mind to Mother. He was already beaming again at his reflection, neglecting Mother and his child.
“Oh, I can’t wait for the time to come when I am swimming in money! I’ll buy myself a mansion by the ocean, with ten bedrooms, large drawing rooms, even a proper foyer and smoke room!” He eyed Mother with a frown. “And I suppose I should give you a necklace or two… It would look unbecoming of you to look so… plain all the time. As if a mere necklace could help your face.”
Mother held the child closer, a trembling hand on the child’s chocolate locks. The child gazed at Father’s reflection with uncaring eyes.
“And that child of yours… I suppose I will have to send it to a proper boarding school once it’s old enough. What a waste of money. It can’t even speak at this age. I was told that children could speak sentences by now. It still hasn’t even said its first word.” He scoffed and turned back to the mirrors.
“H-Have patience, my love.” Mother hesitated before leaning against Father’s broad shoulders. “I am sure with time, our child will succeed beyond your wildest imaginations. After all, you’re such an intelligent man.” Her hands still trembled as she held onto Father. Her powdered face struggled to remain neutral.
Father shoved Mother off as he beamed at her compliment. “Yes, of course. I am such an intelligent man. No man has ever been more intelligent than me!” He laughed and fixed his tie once more. “The only man who could ever surpass me would be…. Well, it would only be God who could!”
“Yes, yes, of course! My lovely husband has the intelligence of a god.” Mother’s smile was stiff and forced.
“When am I not?” Father beamed and finally looked at Mother. “Keep singing my praises and I won’t even know what to do with myself!” he lets out a hearty chuckle.
Ding!
Open the gates. Give a bow. Tip the hat. Smile politely. All to please the three as they leave.
And yet, not even the child glances back in return. Mother clings to Father’s arm once more, both merrily chatting with each other.
Close the gate. Press a button and down to the first floor once more.
A group of 4 entered at half past 12.
The children scrambled in, laughing among themselves. Messy skirts and half-dressed suits. Snowflakes still lingered in their hair, and dirt fell off their boots and got lost within the carpet. Heights of noticeable differences but each had the same rough, crude air about them.
One rushed to bash the ivory buttons of their destined floor. “I won! I won!” Her purple dress bounced as she mocked the others.
“That ain’t fair!” Another whined, his tongue heavy with a Scottish accent.
“I got here first. You’re no match for me, ever.” She stuck her tongue out.
A third stares at her yellow dress. “Are you sure this is how my dress is supposed to look? It looks wrong. This isn’t how Mother does it…”
“Yes, Amelia. That’s what a dress looks like. God, how stupid can you be?” A fourth speaks as a know-it-all.
Amelia flushed. “I-I know what a dress is! But…. but this isn’t right. Right? I mean, Mother usually dresses me with care and attention…”
“It looks fine, Amelia. Stop whining.” The fourth dismissed Amelia again without a glance.
“Ah wanted to press the button!” the second whined again. “Ya always take what ah want!”
“You too, Wallace. Stop complaining. It’s annoying.” He wrinkled his freckled nose.
“Ah ain’t complaining! She told me ah could get the button! She promised! Ah would’ve gotten it if she hadn’t gotten in mah way!”
“Yes, you are. My mother says complaining is what babies do when things don’t go their way. And she’s always right.” He stuck his nose up into the air.
“Yer mum ain’t nothing fancy, Charles. Ah heard yer mum got inta trouble with those tall men out front.”
Amelia spoke softly, still fussing over her dress. “The police seemed very angry with her… I would too, if I had that authority. She’s a no-good woman.”
“My mother is worse than Charles’s.” The first put her fists on her waist, a mischievous grin across her face. “If she was here, hah! Everyone would be crowding around her!”
“One should never be in trouble with the po-lice.” Charles dragged out the word as he tipped his chin to the ceiling. “My mother would never do something like that. My mother is a perfect role model. Those po-lice just don’t know anything.”
“The police know everything. They are the ones who protect people from bad people, like your mother.” Amelia corrected, but then shied away at Charles’ glare.
“You know nothing, Amelia. So, just shut up.”
“She’d only bore you,” the first whispered to Wallace. “She’s too arrogant to tell a proper story.”
“Shut up, Eleanor.” Charles snapped, red faced. “That’s not true.”
Wallace sniggered behind his hand, his thick shoulders trembling to hold in his laughter.
Amelia turned to the mirror. “My dresses never look this… this frump. What if I make a bad impression on Henry? I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself…”
“You’re embarrassing yourself right now, with your pointless crying.” Charles rolled his eyes. “It’s no wonder we don’t come and help you. You’re absolutely pa-thetic.”
Amelia flushed and hid her face in her hands. “N-No, I’m not!”
“And it’s not like Henry is going to care. He’ll be too busy ripping open his presents to notice you.” Eleanor rolled her gray eyes. “You do nothing but cower in the corner, and it’s so pathetic. You should just stop talking to us since you’re so pathetic.”
Amelia avoided the first’s gaze in her reflection, her eyes teared up but no tears fell yet. “T-That’s not true, either. I don’t always cower in the corner. I can be out and about when… when I want to!”
“Yer so boring ta be around.” Wallace scowled. “All ya ever do is ‘old us back from our fun. It’s so boring when ya fuss over nothing. It ain’t fun when yer so dramatic all the time.”
“Oh, stop, Wallace. You’re just as bad too. You whine whenever you lose a game and refuse to play again.” Her eyes filled with tears and her body shuddered to keep them from falling.
“At least, ah play. Ya don’t ever want ta play with the ball, or go on the sleds. All ya do is go wah-wah-wah over yer dress or yer ‘frizzy, blonde hair’.”
“I don’t avoid others.” A tear ran down her face, and her chest trembled as she held back her tears. “I just don’t like the other students. They’re not nice. You three would never understand because you’re too proud…”
“You got to toughen up. It’s your fault they pick on you.” Eleanor crossed her arms.
“Yer just sensitive. A sensitive little gal.” Wallace mocked.
Amelia’s retaliation faded away as her chest heaved. She stared at Wallace and balled her fists. However, she never swung.
Eleanor shakes her head, frowning, while Charles didn’t even look toward Wallace when Amelia finally burst into tears. Only the sounds of gears and Amelia’s crying filled the stale air. Wallace’s face burned red and his eyes darted to and from Amelia, but he said nothing to her. The three shifted on their feet, giving Amelia a wide berth. No one dared to speak now.
Ding!
Open the gates. Give a bow. Tip the hat. Smile politely.
The children quickly rushed out of the elevator, Amelia still crying as they rushed ahead. The three still refused to look at Amelia and had already left her behind as they ran ahead.
Close the gates. Press a button and down to the first floor once more.
A single man entered at 5.
A pipe in one hand and a newspaper in the other. A scratchy beard cut short, a stark comparison to his longer, graying hair. A rather chubby appearance, dressed in a well-groomed suit and a polished olive-wood cane. Mesmerizing pools of cobalt filled to the brim with divine intelligence and passion.
Not a word was said from the man as he smoked his polished pipe and read the freshly printed paper. His face contorted from peaceful gazes to twisted scowls.
Puff, puff.
Pause.
“What an insulting group of people.” His voice was gruff. “Those legislators know nothing about the issues of today and how to resolve them. They most certainly are foolish for believing the people would agree to these outrageous demands. Nothing of this is the Will of God.”
A flick of the page and a grunt.
He neatly tucked the newspaper under his arm and let out a large puff of smoke. The pools of cobalt stared up at the shimmering, golden ceiling. The olive cane bent and bowed underneath his weight.
“They are so surprised and outraged that the public did not agree to their demands…” A frown appeared on his face.
Only a moment later, his melancholy eyes drifted off into thought, and his face relaxed.
Puff, puff.
Pause.
Puff, puff.
Smoky doves swirled around the air. Their wings flapped and fluttered up towards God. The smoky beaks of the doves opened and closed peacefully. Their smoky feathers lingered heavily in the air.
“One certainly could accomplish more if they returned to the bible. They wish to help the poor, and yet they continue to take everything from them. They take everything they can from the poor, who have nothing. It is our duty to give to the poor. The wealthy and well-off are to give to the poor. It is the decree of God.
“Those legislators have abandoned those decrees. It is blindingly obvious that they took the apple from the garden. Now, they are besmirching the name of God for their greed. They pretend they know and that they follow the faith of God. As if parading around like the righteous Adam while hiding as the devil would fool anyone.” The peaks of gray atop his head swayed as ocean waves on a gentle breeze. His head shook in disgust.
“Who took the apple first? Someone must have taken it first for everyone else to fall too.”
Puff, puff.
Pause.
“Could it be Governor Williams? He has always been a nasty man. It must have been him. No other man would dare to defy God’s will.” He took another long puff of his pipe. “What an awful man.
“It would not surprise me if it was indeed him who caused the first sinners of this time. No sense of God within him. And yet, God would never abandon him. He is still a child of God, despite his devilish actions.”
Puff, puff.
Pause.
The rhythmic chiming of the floor indicator brings him back to reality.
“Those men do nothing to appease the heavenly Father.” The man moved with regal grace towards the gates, his voice now low with contempt. “Where has the good faith of God gone?”
His eyes drifted to the floor indicator above. “Have I rambled on for too long?” He murmured.
Ding!
Open the gates. Give a bow. Tip the hat. Smile politely.
The man returned the bow and strolled off, a prayer already forming on his discontent lips. A rhythmic drum echoed as he walked with his cane.
Close the gates. Press a button and down to the first floor once more.
9 ringing chimes and two women enter.
Both dressed in long black gowns and gloved hands. One sobbed and moaned through a thick black handkerchief, and the other stood stiff and silent in the corner. Heavy black veils hung atop their heads.
“Stop moaning so loudly. It’s unacceptable for a woman to sob in public.” Her lips pursed and her gaze stared straight ahead, almost forcefully.
A louder wail echoed in the small box of mirrors.
The second woman’s body stiffened, struggling to move, and her eyes darted about. She turned away from the other’s tearful gaze. Her hands tightened around themselves and relaxed only a moment later.
“H-how can he be gone? H-he was so young!” The first woman sobbed, sinking to the floor. “The doctors said he could get better! He was supposed to be getting better!” Her voice trembled. “Why wasn’t he getting better?”
“Get. Up.” Her voice was sharp, but she made no effort to lift the other. “If you must cry… cry when we’re home.” She didn’t look at the other.
“I-I promised him that I would take him to the lake house once he got better enough. W-we were supposed to spend his birthday there. I-I was going to give him a proper outfit! An outfit for a man!” Tears flooded her face and stained the floor. “Why can’t I give him a birthday
party? H-He is only a child!”
“Quiet your tongue, Margaret. Please…” Her shoulders heaved and trembled. “Please, my child. Wailing to the heavens won’t let us see him again…” Her eyes filled with tears but none fell. “So please, quiet your tongue so that the others don’t look down upon us…” Her voice faded out.
“How could I lose him so quickly! It feels like it was yesterday I had given birth! Oh, my precious little baby boy.” Margaret beamed through her tearstained face as she cradled the air in her arms. “What a delightful little smile you have. You look just like your father. You will grow to be just like him, won’t you?”
“Margaret, my child… Don’t talk to an invisible child… People will think you have gone mad… More mad than mournful.”
“My little boy. My beautiful little boy. You gave Mother quite a scare, didn’t you?” She held the air close to her chest. “How funny you are. You must have your Father’s humor. He has always loved a good scare like that. Oh, how real it felt to watch you suffer through that constant fatigue and to see you so thin. But my imagination must have run wild. You are as plump as a bear, aren’t you, my little one?”
Mother didn’t speak as she watched Margaret rock and play with the air. She turned away from Margaret, and her shoulders slumped. The only sound that filled her ears was the glee from her daughter.
Her smile slowly faded.“But… you aren’t here, are you? No… no, I don’t have a smiling child… Where did your lovely smile go?”
“The doctors stole my child!” Margaret’s voice stung like wasps. “They are liars! I want my child back!” Her voice faded, and all that came from her were incoherent sobs.
Margaret resumed her cooing and cradling her arms. Mother’s chest shuddered as her breath hitched while staring at the weightless air between Margaret’s arms. She wiped away her few tears and patted Margaret’s back.
“How dare they take my child! My baby is lost! I need him!”
“He’s in a…” Mother faltered before speaking in a trembling voice, “wonderful place now, Margaret. Let him join in the games he could not play with us.” Her gaze lifted to the ceiling as she held Margaret close. “Please play and sing without guilt, Little one…” A strained breath left her lips.
She leaned against Mother before slowly holding her arms close to her again. “Oh my, you have your father’s eyes, and my pretty, pretty hair. How soft your hair is, like rabbit fur.” Margaret stroked the air with her thumb, her sobbing now replaced with a beaming smile. “You will be top of your class, won’t you? You have the intelligence of your father, don’t you? I could never be more proud of you, my little one. You will always be my little one.”
Mother’s eyes darted between Margaret’s smile and the air that she attempted to reassure. A shudder ran through Mother’s body as she struggled to breathe. She leaned against the railings as a small stream of tears ran down her angled cheeks. Her eyes settled on the air that Margaret tended to.
“H-he did have his father’s eyes, didn’t… didn’t he?” Mother’s voice trembled. “Such a pretty boy like him… deserves to rest in Heaven now, Margaret… So, please… He is not here… any… anymore.” She rested her hands on Margaret’s.
“Bring him back!” Margaret sobbed into her hands. “Mother, please. I need my little boy back…” Her voice was raw.
Mother stared down at Margaret and watched her sob uncontrollably. Both had weak and quivering shoulders. Margaret’s sobs faded away to sweet words of promises to play and entertain.
Ding!
Open the gates. Give a bow. Tip the hat. But do not return a smile. This is not the time.
Mother shuddered and snapped to attention and dragged Margaret, cradling her arms once more, out of the elevator.
Close the gates. Press a button and down to the first floor once more.
The clock strikes 10, and it is the end of the day.
Pocket watch is put away, and cleaning supplies are at the elevator. The foggy mirrors are now polished to perfection. The golden handles and ivory buttons gleam in the dim light. The scarlet rug is now vacuumed free of crumbs, and the gates oiled till they were silent.
The gates clatter to a close for the day.
Quiet halls and dim lights. Hardly anyone is out and about now. Those who are quickly shuffled out of sight. Distant footsteps of janitors echo around the elegant halls and cavernous rooms. The hotel might as well be desolate with how few people passed by.
A few others appear to chat away about the people they served. Exchange a couple of words before bidding a farewell and goodnight. Now the halls were silent.
Open the door and enter the small room. Light the lamp. Pull off the gloves, put away the shoes, and hang the hat.
Nothing more to do but return to sleep. The day’s events fell with the sun, and the night began.
Tomorrow, the clock resets once more.