Narrative



Someone called and told Mama that he was looking for us, that he was hunting us down, but I didn’t think it would happen like this. We heard a shout come from the parking lot outside our motel room. The voice echoed through the thin paper walls, filling it up with the all too familiar voice. He had found us. He was here. Mama’s eyes darted around the room, as she screamed at us to hide. I grabbed my stuffed animal George off the side table then scuttled under the bed. I peered out from beneath. My view of the room was just a small portion framed by the shape of how the sheets fell, but I could still see. I needed to know if Mama and Isabel had found a safe place too.

“Stuart!” I heard her voice cry out. Mama’s voice sounded different. What was usually reassuring and confident was now etched with fear and worry.

“I’m right here. Where are you guys?” I asked. I could feel my stomach churning as I fidgeted with George’s velvety soft ears, wringing them between my fingers.

“Isabel and I are in the bathroom. Stay where you are. We’ll all be out soon. He’ll be gone soon. I promise.”

I heard the lock on the bathroom door click. I hoped that Mama and Isabel would be safe. George and I were by ourselves now. The next few minutes seemed to last an eternity. We were hiding under the bed, holding our breaths, pretending that we were invisible. The room was quiet except for the song playing on the clock radio. It was almost peaceful. This calm was interrupted by a fist pounding violently against the door. I could hear the splintering of wood as it broke open and then his steady, determined footsteps making their way across the room. I could see his tattered blue and white Nike sneakers striking the worn beige carpet.

“I know you’re in here.” he surveyed the room, looking for any signs of movement. I scooted further back into the shadows.

His eyes flickered over to the bathroom. He took a step towards it, pounding on the door as he ordered them to open it. Isabel let out a gasp just loud enough for him to hear. He charged in. I tried to shut my eyes, my ears. I tried with all my might to block out the terrible noises, with a glimmer of hope that this was all a nightmare and I would wake up soon enough, but I couldn’t. I can remember every second in vivid detail, this one moment seared into my mind forever. The radio hummed in the background carrying on a cheery tune despite the scene taking place right in front of my eyes and ears. I hugged George closer to me, shielding his eyes with the palm of my hand; I didn’t want him to see this. Shelves crashed to the floor as they struggled to get free. The radio flew off the night stand shattering into pieces. I buried my face into George’s back. I needed to do something. I thought back to those movies we watched that summer. Every time it seemed like the hero would come in at the last moment to save the day. If only I could be like them, strong, timely and brave. But I was none of those things. I turned away, cringing at their cries for help. I stayed like that for a while: my faced buried in my hands, George clutched tightly to my side, trying not to breathe too hard for fear that he would find me too. I heard the man heave out one long breath; I peeked out from under the bed. He glanced around the motel room once more before striding out, slamming the door shut behind him. I listened for the sound of my mother or sister possibly clinging onto life. For the sound of one shaky breath to reassure me that they were okay. Even for the song on the radio to still carry on its tune, determined as ever. But there was only one sound that filled our disheveled hotel room. Silence.

I sprang up from bed panting heavily, my vision blurred in and out of focus with the tears threatening to spill over. It had been more than three years and four foster homes since that terrible night; the night when Mama and Isabel left George and I all alone. No matter how much I want to, and how much I’ve tried, I can’t forget. Every night I feel the rhythm of his footsteps. I smell the scent of cigarettes hinted with sweat. I hear the song that was playing on the radio with each verse triggering a different image from that night. Tears ran down my face, pooling on George’s back. Only he sees me this way. I promised myself in my first foster home that I’d never let another person see me cry, no matter how much I hurt.

Sometimes I think it’s funny that I can’t listen to music without feeling sad. When I was younger my Nana used to sing to me every night. No matter what was happening outside my bedroom doors, she could always make me feel safe. Lately I’ve been forgetting what her voice sounds like, I forget more and more every day, like my mind is clearing out the good memories to fill up with bad. It’s getting harder to remember what Mama and Isabel were like before they passed. I don’t want my only memories of them to about the night they were killed, but it’s becoming tougher to remember all the good times I spent with them.

School gets worse too. The teachers think I’m stupid and that’s the reason why I don’t do my work. Every new school I go to the teachers learn my story. I tell them nothing, usually it’s my foster parents. I think they believe they’re doing me a favor, like they want the teachers to treat me differently. I see the pained expressions on their faces as I walk through the halls. It’s like they want to say something, anything, reassuring to make me better, but they just can’t find the right words. I’ve found the easiest way is to avoid eye contact, it’s better for us both. They don’t have to worry about finding the right thing to say, and I don’t have to run the risk of forming relationships. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years it’s that relationships are bad. Never let anyone get too close to you, or you’ll just end up losing them.

Falling back asleep is always the hardest part. Most of the time it seems like all the old memories that are conjured up and the worries and fears that arise only make my mind more active. Every night I lay awake in my bed, willing sleep to come but it never comes quickly. I know there’s only one way I’ll be able to fall asleep again. With my right arm i pull George tight to my side. With my left hand I take my thumb nail and press it into the tip of my index finger as hard as I can. This is a different kind of pain; it helps me forget. In these short moments everything goes away. I can’t feel the sadness, the guilt, the loneliness. I can’t remember the motel room, or worry about the things that I forget. I only feel the painful sensation of my nail digging into my fingertip. And as my hand slowly tires out and I can’t press any harder, I am finally able to close my eyes and drift off into a dreamless sleep.