Yellow Mama E zine

Maybe God Looked Away

 

by

 

Michael Downing

 

 

       There are fourteen stairs from the living room to the second floor. Fourteen, not counting the landing, where the staircase turns, a break before continuing the last few steps. I know them well—the way they creak, groaning under his weight, a warning that rings in my ears almost every night. Most nights it’s impossible to tell when the sound of his approaching footsteps change into the pounding of my heart, echoing in my head.

       Night after night the bedroom door inches open a crack, a sliver of dim light spilling into the darkness. Slowly, like he has all the time in the world, he’ll creep inside. He’ll close the door, plunging the room back into blackness, but it’s somehow better that way. Light makes everything worse. His voice slithers through the air like a snake, whispering my name, over and over, until it is the only thing I can hear. I hate hearing it. Hate the sound of my own name. His voice— it isn’t even his anymore. It’s a thing that has dug its way inside me, one word at a time, until I can’t get it out. Can’t escape its grip.

      “No” doesn’t work.

      Not even worth the breath it takes to say the word.

       I never answer right away. At first, I thought if I stayed perfectly still, perfectly quiet, maybe he wouldn’t notice me. Maybe he’d turn away. But maybes were dreams that never came true and the silence only made it worse. The inevitable is always coming. I’ll feel the weight of him on the bed, the sheets pulling as he slides next to me, his body too close, his breath hot against my skin. The unavoidable touch of his icy fingers. Even when I turn away, he’ll press in, like a shadow that can’t be shaken. His hands, too eager, too familiar, sliding along my body like he owns it.

        Every time, I shut my eyes, closing them tight, like maybe he’ll become less real the tighter I squeeze them. Maybe by wishing hard enough, the night will end with me waking up someplace far away. Far away from him. Far away from my life. Far away from fear. But that never happens. There is no end to it. No God to save me. In the beginning I prayed. Prayed like a desperate animal clawing for a way out, but it was pointless. God chose sides long ago and he didn’t pick me.

        Now, I listen for the sound of his footsteps on those fourteen stairs. His footsteps will be loud and deliberate, coming up one by one. There are other sounds too, sounds a house makes as it shifts into the night, but I’ll ignore them. Stay focused instead. My fingers are curled around the cold, sharp handle of the knife hidden beneath my pillow. I grip it until my knuckles hurt, like the pain is the last thing keeping me tied to this world.

        If he’s going to come, then I’ll make sure that this is the last time.

        If God won’t answer my prayers, I’ll solve my own fucking problem.

 

 

      Michael Downing is a writer originally from New Jersey, now living in Georgia. His book, Saints of the Asphalt, was released this summer. His short stories have been featured in a number of publications and anthologies (including Rock and A Hard Place, Bristol Noir, Punk Noir), and two have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes.

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Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Ángeles. His artwork has appeared over the years in Medusa’s Kitchen, Nerve Cowboy, The Dope Fiend Daily, and Rogue Wolf Press, Venus in Scorpio Poetry E-Zine.