By: Emma Zarabaugh
A short story of the Chaos and Control that lives within our own minds.
The freezing December wind whipped across my face. Strands of hair left small and tender gashes that were invisible to everything but my sensitive skin. I hated when it did that. My brittle, skin-cracked hands were tucked deep into the pockets of my jeans, yet I could still feel the wind slipping its way back to my hands as if it were a snake lost in the ticket of greenery. It was all worth it though, to see my son play his favorite sport.
If one were to look at me, they would see my blonde hair and thin, stick-straight body and come to the conclusion that I was a basic ‘soccer-mom.’ My appearance did not cause minds to think that I was anything besides a common imbecile…if only they knew how many things I kept to myself.
Though, the mother next to me was the real imbecile. Or maybe that was only subjective. Regardless, I couldn’t stand the squeak of her voice as if it were an oilless door or how she prattled on about meaningless topics such as her grocery list or how well her son was doing in school. I wanted to snap. I wanted to tell her that I really didn’t care what she said and that her voice caused my ears to bleed. Despite my desperation to get her to be quiet, I said nothing. She wouldn’t notice my annoyance, either. She was too focused on what she wanted to say rather than if I cared to hear about it at all.
The children screamed and ran across the field chasing after the ball in excitement. Not far from the field was a hill, and on that hill stood a man. A man with no distinct features–his hands deep within his own jean pockets as if he were a mirror of myself. When I would shift my weight from one leg to the other, so would he. He was a frequent figure. One I saw when I became lost in the maze of my own mind. He did what my skin secretly gnawed to do.
I tore my attention away from the man as my son scored a goal. His first goal. The mother standing next to me squealed for him as loud and obnoxious as a pig. She clapped her hands together so incessantly I was beginning to truly hate her. I figured a plain, congratulatory smile would suffice for now. When we were alone, I could finally tell him how proud I truly was, just as I always did. From a distance, I watched the man draw near. He began walking closer to me with a smile that sent shivers down my spine.
The mother never stopped blabbing about irrelevant topics, and grew louder as we watched the teams of children trying to win a tied game. Everyone was on the edge of their seats waiting to see the outcome of the game, yet no one noticed the man. My eyes were locked onto him in anxious anticipation. I wanted to know what he was going to do once he reached the audience.
With every step he took, my heart sunk deeper in my chest. His smile was unchanging and my body became nearly impossible to move as if every one of my limbs were glued to each other. I watched him work through the crowd until he stopped about five feet in front of me. He positioned himself in front of the woman who continued to speak in her high pitched words. He craned his neck to look at me. He was made of terrifying darkness and lacked any features except his broad smile. All I could see was that smile filled with teeth made of nightmares. Then, he slowly craned his neck back to the woman and unsheathed a long, curved blade from his belt.
Her death was over before I could blink. Blood sprayed across the grass and the crowd screamed in horror all around me. The game swiftly ended as the children scattered, running far away from the man they could not see. I remained still. Unmoving. The mother who had been chattering my ear off to her heart’s content was dead.
I looked down. Her head had been separated from her body. Splatters of her blood stung at my eyes and red tears began to trail down my cheeks. My tears came from no place of grief or sadness—only from the discomfort stinging sensation that pierced my eyes.
The man returned his attention towards me still wearing that hideous smile. He opened his mouth wide. Too wide. He reached a decayed hand into his mouth and pulled a broken clock from his throat. It was small, yet enticing as it swung back and forth from the chain; a faint ticking noise echoing from it. I knew this part. I knew what would happen now. My eyes squeezed shut.
When I opened them again, I focused on the wind. Oh how I hated the wind. The crowd returned to its place, the children were still playing their game on the field, and the incessant chatter beside me continued as if it never left. The man stood at a distance back on the hill and I tried to bat away the vision of what he had done, but it replayed in my head. He was still smiling. He was always smiling—as if he controlled my life. As if he knew my darkest fantasies and desires.
My son scored another goal, earning his team enough points to win the game. We went home, but the man was always there lurking a short distance away—ready to show me a version of myself I didn’t know. A version of myself that I would become if I wasn’t careful.
Emma is a student at WSU, and expresses herself through her words with writing books, poetry, and short stories. Her hope is for other people to connect with her work, and think deeply about what her work could mean.
