The Shadow That Grew
The walls in our house are thinner than they should be, like they’re made of stretched-out secrets. You can hear everything, even the thoughts people try not to have. I once tried to whisper a dream to myself, and I swear the walls caught it and tucked it away somewhere, probably for later use. They like to keep things here—especially the things you’d rather forget.
Tonight, the air smells like burnt toast, and not in a comforting, someone’s-making-breakfast-at-midnight way. No, it’s more like an omen, like something’s already gone wrong, and we’re just waiting for it to announce itself. Dad’s sitting in his chair by the window, casting a shadow that looks like it’s planning to stay even when he leaves. I’ve always thought his shadow has too much personality for something that’s supposed to just follow you around. It slithers and spreads itself over the floor like it’s in charge of the whole room. My own shadow, by comparison, is more of a mouse—small, quiet, content to hide in the corners, waiting for permission to exist.
When the first slap lands, it’s almost polite. Like the air tries to soften it on its way down. Funny how even physics can feel sorry for you. I don’t flinch, though—flinching would mean acknowledging it, and we don’t do that here. We pretend it’s all part of the scenery, like the wallpaper peeling in slow motion or the creaky stairs that haven’t been fixed in years.
I fold in on myself like I always do, trying to get smaller, as if shrinking could make me disappear entirely. I’ve gotten good at it—turning into something forgettable. Maybe, if I practice enough, I’ll become one of those paper cranes I read about, the kind people make when they’re wishing for something impossible. Maybe someone will find me one day, folded neatly on a shelf, and mistake me for something worth keeping.
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
Dad’s pacing now, his voice slurring a little. He says it like it’s not even a question, like he’s already decided the answer. I don’t say anything. I’ve learned that answering doesn’t make a difference. Whether I speak or not, it’s like tossing words into a well with no bottom—everything just gets swallowed up.
I touch my cheek where the sting is spreading, hot and red like a wildfire, but contained. My bones don’t rattle like they used to. They’ve grown accustomed to this, the way you get used to the sound of a leaky faucet after a while, even though it still drives you mad.
He’s not really talking to me anymore, I realize. He’s talking to whatever storm lives in his chest, the one that wakes up at the same time every night and demands attention. Dad’s anger isn’t personal. It’s just bored. It’s got nowhere else to go, so it hangs around the house, breaking things because it can. I wonder if it’s ever considered a hobby. I hear knitting’s nice.
But there’s something strange tonight, something different. I feel it in the way the air hums, like it’s been waiting for something to happen. I blink, and for a moment, I see something—or someone—in the corner of the room. A woman, maybe, or something pretending to be one. Her dress is made of dust and cobwebs, and she’s standing by the window, watching. Her hands are outstretched toward me, like she’s offering something, but I can’t tell what. Maybe it’s a way out.
I blink again, and she’s gone. Or maybe she was never there. It wouldn’t be the first time my mind played tricks on me, trying to make the unbearable a little more bearable. This house is full of strange things, after all. Sometimes, I think it’s alive, that it breathes and listens and holds onto every whispered thought that escapes my lips.
Dad doesn’t notice, of course. He’s still muttering to himself, like a man who’s lost an argument no one else was having. His anger drips off him like a leaky faucet, and I can almost hear the slow, steady drip-drip-drip of it pooling on the floor, collecting at my feet. He knocks over a chair on his way out, the door slamming behind him, but the silence sticks around, like it’s got nowhere better to be.
I wait for a while, listening to the house settle back into itself, the quiet wrapping around me like a too-tight sweater. I should cry, probably. That’s what people expect, isn’t it? But I don’t. I just get up, slow and deliberate, like I’m testing to see if my legs still work. They do, though they feel more like someone else’s.
I go to the window where the figure stood—if she stood there at all—and look out into the night. The moon’s hanging there, heavy and silver, like it’s trying to apologize for something. The trees outside sway gently in the breeze, and the air is cool against my burning cheek. For a second, I wonder if maybe the shadows will come back tonight. They’ve been hiding for a while now, but they can’t stay gone forever, can they? Maybe they’re just waiting for the right moment, for when things are quiet enough to creep back in.
I stand there, watching, waiting, listening to the soft sounds of the world turning, and I swear I hear something—a whisper, maybe. I look down at my feet, and for the first time in a long while, I see my own shadow. It’s standing a little taller tonight. Maybe it’s tired of being small. Maybe I am too.
"Maybe tomorrow," I whisper to myself, "I’ll grow too."
The house creaks in response, but it feels more like a promise than a threat this time.