Mike Omer - In the Darkness

They fell onto the bed, and it creaked under their weight. He pulled her into his lap, and she straddled him. His body was a sanctuary from her stormy thoughts. She could lose herself in this moment.

And right now, losing herself sounded like the best idea in the world.

Maine sat on his bed and exhaled heavily, gazing at the floor. The boy looked at her, wishing she’d go away. But that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

“Do you wanna play with my LEGOs?” he asked. He didn’t want to play with her at all. But he knew from experience that his mother would later ask him what they’d done. He would have to demonstrate that he’d suggested a plethora of games, and Maine hadn’t been interested in any of them. A good host always tried to entertain his guests, his mother told him every single time .

He never pointed out that a host was someone who invited his guests over. Not someone who was forced to have guests.

Maine rolled her eyes, as if the mere suggestion that they play LEGOs bored her.

Her real name was Charmaine, but he’d only heard it once, when her mother had been furious at her. The rest of the time, she was Maine. His mother and Maine’s mother, Ruth, had been friends since high school. They met at least once a month, and Ruth always brought Maine with her. The two mothers would quickly tell them to go play, and they’d have to go to his room or outside together. He hated it. He knew Maine hated it, since she’d told him several times. He had no idea why Ruth kept bringing her over.

He wasn’t even sure his mother enjoyed it. Before they would visit, his mother inevitably complained to his father that Ruth would find some way to look down at her. And after they’d leave, he often heard his mother say she was never inviting Ruth over again.

He used to feel a spark of hope when she said that. Not anymore. Ruth and Maine were a permanent fixture in his life. Like going to the dentist or waking up for church on Sunday or the basement closet punishments.

“We can play Monopoly,” he suggested half-heartedly.

Maine snorted. “That’s a game for little kids.”

She was a year older than him. But she was almost a foot taller and would often point that out when they met, demonstrating how the top of his head didn’t even reach her chin. When she took the time to establish that fact, he would stand perfectly still, his eyes locked on her chest. It bulged just a bit through her shirt.

He decided he’d covered his bases. He imagined the conversation with his mom in his head.

“What did you and Maine play?” she would ask, her voice slightly tense, as it always was after meeting her dear friend.

“Nothing,” he’d say, cleverly omitting Maine’s refusal. If he started out by explaining that she didn’t want to play anything, it sounded defensive.

“You have to suggest things to play,” his mother would say. “A good host always tries to entertain his guests.”

“I did suggest things,” he would say.

“What did you suggest?”

“Monopoly and LEGOs.”

Check and mate. His mother would have nothing to say about that.

Maine exhaled again. She wore a nice perfume. The same one she’d worn last time. Its scent had stayed after she’d left and had almost made the visit worth it. He’d lain in bed thinking about her standing close to him, saying, “Look! My chin doesn’t even touch your head. You’re the shortest boy I know!”

Him standing motionless, staring at those bulges in her shirt.

He turned away and began to sort the matchboxes on his desk. Fifteen matchboxes, his prized collection. He loved playing with them, always feeling the fascination growing in him when he thought about their contents. His own little pets.

Beetles, spiders, cockroaches, but mostly flies. He’d catch them alive and put them in the matchboxes. Listen to the sounds as they scuttled in their tiny prisons. He’d put several in the same matchbox. The trick was, you opened the box just a bit, sliding the new captive inside, shutting it once he was there. Sometimes he’d mix and match. A spider with three flies. A cockroach and a beetle together.

Every once in a while he would shake each box and listen. If it made no sound, he’d empty it on a little strip of toilet paper. Eventually he’d make a small pile of little dead insects and just look at them, wondering how they’d felt, trapped in the box constantly looking for a way out.

“What are those?” The voice made him start. Maine stood behind him, leaning over his shoulder. He could smell her perfume.

“Just my collection. Of matchboxes.” He’d stacked all fifteen boxes one on top of the other. A tower of prisoners.

“It’s not very big.” She sniffed. “And they’re all the same type. Isn’t a collection supposed to be of different types of boxes?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know what I like to do?” she said. “I like to light matches and let them burn. And then, when the flame almost reaches my finger, I grab them from the other side and flip them so they burn completely.”

He licked his lips. “Okay.”

She still leaned over his shoulder, her billowy shirt touching his neck.

“Here, let me show you.” She grabbed the topmost box.

He didn’t say anything, completely paralyzed by the moment. She straightened and opened the box. Her eyes widened as two flies shot out, flying around the ceiling. The dark feet of a cockroach wiggled out of the box.

She screamed, and the cockroach leaped out, climbing up Maine’s hand. She shook her hand and stumbled, falling, knocking the tower of matchboxes to the floor. Still screeching, she stumbled to the door, yanked it open, and ran outside.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Around him, dozens of prisoners scuttled and buzzed, their limbs and wings scratching against the cardboard walls of their cells.

The alarm woke Tatum up seconds after he had drifted into sleep. At least, that was what it felt like. Dazed, he fumbled for the phone, knocking it off the night table and under the bed in one clumsy swipe.

The alarm got louder. Tatum had recently downloaded an alarm app that was designed for heavy sleepers. It couldn’t be snoozed, and to stop it, he had to punch in a six-digit code. Its volume increased every few seconds. He had no idea what had prompted him to invite such a malicious entity into his life.

He got out of bed and crouched to get to the phone. He had somehow managed to knock the phone all the way to the center of the space beneath the bed—just far enough that it would be a nightmare to reach from all sides. He had to stretch hard to get it, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process. The alarm was now blaring so loud it had probably managed to wake up several of the adjacent rooms as well.

His fingers snagged the phone, and he pulled it out, groaning. He tapped the required six digits, and the vile thing finally went quiet. He sat on the floor, holding it, recuperating from the traumatic wakeup call.

He sent Zoe a short message: Need a ride to the airport?

Putting the phone aside, he began dressing. Halfway through putting on his socks, he paused, one foot still bare, the remaining sock bunched in his hand.

Zoe hadn’t responded yet. The night before, after lying awake in bed, thinking about Marvin’s reprimand, he’d manage to cook up a vague sense of guilt for not rising to the occasion. He checked the phone and saw Zoe hadn’t even opened his message.

That was a bit strange. She was awake for sure, and Zoe was obsessive about checking her messages. Doubly so now that Andrea was in danger.