I wake up to the sound of your footsteps. No matter how soft each step, I can still hear them. My heart beats quicker. My attention rises. I'm like a child, eager for your attention.
Last night I noticed your worry. You had a far off stare, and hardly said a word to me. But things have changed. Afterall, this is a new day, the sun is up, the morning is filled with possiblities.
I look up from my place, my eyes wide with curoisity, and patiently wait while you pour some coffee into your mug. I call to you, but you only yawn. My spirit takes a tumble. Do you even see me? Am I an object, or a ghost, or a mere painting on the wall?
You turn away in a moody silence; I hear the drumming of water from the shower. When you come back, you're dressed and ready to leave. I put my best face on, throw out a whimper of excitment...
I get a pat on the head, a bowl full of food, and you walk out the door without me. This is my life, and you complain about yours! What does a dog have to do to get some affection around here?
The Encounter
“Good girl,” the demon on the phone praises her. “I’ll see you soon.”
Angela's hand slides down from her ear and she stares blankly at the empty, dark hall. He is a demon; nothing more than an evil spirit. Will she ever rid herself from his clutches?
She tiptoes back into the room; she knows exactly the location of what she's looking for.
"Hey, Ange, want to watch something else with us?" Lola asks.
"Not now," she feigns a smile. "I have to go out for a second." Lola frowns; an indication to her disbelief. It's late, not the time to go out shopping. Angela quickly continues. "Emergency. I'm out of tampons. You guys go ahead, you'll catch me up later."
Finally, Lola seems okay with Angela's explanation. Angela turns to the file cabinet snuggled at the corner of the room; she pulls open the last drawer, careful not to make a sound, and reaches into the back. She brings forth a small wooden box with engravings on it. The rough wood is gray and cracked, the engraving are blackened by time.
While Lola and her friend have busy eyes on the bright screen of the laptop, Angela slips the box into the pocket of her coat and steps out the room. She swings the coat on as she takes the stairs. The sense of being watched lingers like a shadow on her back; she pays close attention to anyone she encounters. The demon's minions can be found anywhere, even at school.
Angela leaves the building. The cold, wintery air is like a splash of reality; this is not a game, this is real. She walks away from campus knowing she'll be face to face with her one true fear. The demon.
Her steps echo on the pavement; loud and brisk, just like the beat of her strumming heart. Angela moves along the blocks, turns at the corners, and keeps on walking, unaware of where she is headed, but somehow pulled to keep on moving.
From the darkness of an alley, two strong hands snatch her from the shoulders. The hold is familiar, possessive. The demon.
Thrusted against the rough bricks of the wall, his arms encase her body, and in his dark stare, victory shines.
Oblivion
I sit on the dusty, cracked steps of an old building. I hold in my grimy hands a bag of broken cookies—the artificial-flavored kind that taste more like medicine than real food. My mouth waters at the thought; I've eaten only a slice of bread since morning and already the sun is creeping behind the skyscrapers.
It's been long since I stopped imagining what life was like before the war. Before they entered the streets with their guns and destruction, with their death and pain, with their hell of shouts and anger and shots and blood.
They are gone now. Probably will never return. But what they left behind is not freedom nor peace. We run the streets like rats, and in the same way, we scavenge for food and a place to sleep.
I'm weak. From hunger and sleep deprivation. I can't open the cookies for the life of me! Using my teeth, I fianlly rip through the plastic. Strawberry crumbs explode in my mouth, but before I can empty the contents and munch them down, a hand snatches the bag away.
I jump to my feet at once, ready to fight for my food. Someone from behind slams me to the ground.
Three boys run as if death itself was chasing them.
"Tough luck, boy!" One of them calls out my way.
"It's a girl, you fool." Another corrects his companion.
They disappear around the corner, their footsteps a distant echo. I pick myself up from the ground and brush my short hair from my eyes. My back aches and I blame the pain for the tears that smear warmth down my face.