The incessant hum of the orange streetlamp flickering. The light patter of a rodent’s feet scurrying. The belabored cough of the occasional pickup truck trudging along. The unrelenting soundtrack to my life playing over and over and over again.

The cacophony grows to a dull rumble, an itch resting along the inner wall of my skull, and I roam the damp asphalt streets just as I did yesterday, just as I will do tomorrow.

I peer down at my numb feet, making sure they are, in fact, still intact. My once-white size 6 Skechers stare back at me, covered in french-fry oil and dry mud, bursting at every seam, trying so desperately to cling to my worn out size 7½ feet has grown. One naked toe stares back at me, ugly and unclean, but certainly intact.

I continue forward. Left, right, left, right, left, right…

Bitter and sharp, the cold air bites through the thin layers of clothes and into my skin, stabbing at the vulnerable toe with every heavy step. I shuffle my feet faster, curl my toes in further, hug the tattered sweatshirt closer to my ribs and watch the fog of each sour breath float out of my mouth and into the motionless air.

I keep my eyes forward. There isn’t all that much to see. Pothole, streetlamp, house, pothole, streetlamp, house, pothole, streetlamp, house. Of course, every once in awhile a pair of headlights or rodents will interrupt the cycle; other than that, however, the scenery seems to slide by on an endless loop like the background of an old video game.

A black spot scurries into my peripheral field of view. I whip my head towards a large rat, dashing from a familiar jagged hole at the base of a familiar wooden porch.

Through the dim light of the flickering orange bulb above, I look up at the house to which the jagged rat’s hole belongs, stripped of color, grown over with ivy, struggling to hold itself together with about as much success as my battered, once-white sneakers. The piercing yellow eyes of a black cat peer out towards the darkness from atop mom’s rickety old rocking chair as it creaks back and forth on the sinking wooden porch. A broken beer bottle rolls back and forth beside it, knocking in to the others, disturbing the suffocating stillness of the cold night air.

I turn back towards the road and am immediately blinded. A ball of light as bright as the sun crawls towards me. My hand jumps to shade my eyes and I watch the orb of light split in two.

My body splits in two with it.

In my mind’s eye, I watch myself gathering what energy I can. I watch myself breathing heavier, feeling my heart beat faster. I watch myself running out into the street. I watch myself being swallowed by the light. I watch myself escape.

I blink.

I watch my feet stay firmly planted on the side of the road. I watch the red pickup limp by, illuminated by the light of the golden arches a few hundred yards back. I watch my only chance inch by and I wish that I was the me I imagined a few moments ago.

My feet drag along the crumbling asphalt, past my childhood home onto the neighboring plot of land, until I reach the faded red door of my current residence.

I’ve lived 23 years and barely moved 23 feet.

I open the creaking door. A wave of warmth, and a perfume of body odor and flatulence washes over me. As I cross the threshold I welcome the familiar sensation. I ram my shoulder into the door, simultaneously turning the lock, the only way to keep it from popping back open the second it closes.

The buzz of the streetlamps. The scratch of a rodent’s claws. The sigh of the engine. They are dimmed, but never fully muted.

Pressing my forehead into the door, I allow myself to absorb the dry heat of the stagnant air. I sigh, preparing myself for the next phase of the routine: Dan.

My boyfriend’s body is slung over the couch, with his mouth parted just enough for a whistle of air to run past his beer-stained teeth and into his tar-filled lungs. A half drunken beer bottle rests just beside the leg of the couch, next to the others. There are more empty bottles than usual.

At least somebody had a productive night.

My knees dig into the hard wood beneath them as I reach over to collect tonight’s round of bottles when a whisper of cold washes over the nape of my neck. I scan the room in search of the source. A fallen plank of wood lies lifelessly beneath the boarded up window, or at least the hole where the window was before the last tornado.

I drag myself toward it as the breeze cuts through the stiff, stale air, but just before I can pick up the moldy slab of weathered wood, I find myself fixated on the small slice of night it leaves uncovered.

I shuffle towards the backdoor and give it a harsh shove. It opens with a loud thump and a crack, but I know it won’t wake Dan-nothing but his own vomit can do that.

I submerge myself into the frigid air and tilt my chin back as far as my stiff neck will allow.

A shroud of suffocating darkness cloaks the world. Like each cloud of breath, everything around me fades into the background, slowly dissipating, melting into the shadow of the night. Not even the drone of the streetlamp or the scrape of the small animal or the pants of the pickup trucks follow me anymore, finally extinguished and replaced by an unbreakable silence. And for a moment I wonder if I will be swallowed by it as well, smothered by the all-consuming darkness weighing down on my tiny world.

So I squeeze my eyes shut, suck in the icy air, clench my frozen fists and wait.

But nothing happens.

I let the crinkles in my eyelids smooth out and release my fists. The moment my eyes open my mouth does too, taking in a sharp breath of the refreshing night air.

The darkness revealed something that the lights kept hidden.

My feet flatten the overgrown grass, my arms pump, my mind spins. Air, raw and fresh, flies toward me, biting my nose and stinging my cheeks and I am running. I am in front of the rundown shack I call home and I am looking out at that same road I travel day after tedious day and I am realizing that I have only ever seen a fraction of it. This road stretches on into the vast darkness for miles and miles and miles, rolling over the side of the earth only twenty or thirty streetlamps down into unchartered territory.

With each step forward, the path ahead grows, another streetlamp pokes through the distant ground. And with the golden light on my back I keep on running, away from that house I know far too well, yes, but also toward the darkness I know nothing of because what I saw in that backyard is something I had always known was there but had never seen before. What I saw was something nobody can take from me: tiny holes poked through night’s veil.

Someone must have made it through.

Maybe I can too.

LEILA SHIRIAN is a writer recently published in several local publications. Inspired by the great fiction writers that expanded her imagination and encouraged her hunger for the written word, Leila is eager to share her own writing, hoping to contribute to the community that has been fueling her passion and excitement for storytelling since she was a little girl.

You know I’m here, don’t you, Nanette?  You know which one is me. Just a dim, green glow in the darkness; just the faintest ripple and plop. Shadows gliding, vague forms sliding. And you know which one is me.

They’ve turned out the lights and you’ve turned your head away from me. But you know I’m still here. And you know there’s nobody you can tell, nobody who will believe you. That’s the trouble with this place. It’s like one of those foreign art movies where you can’t tell the truth from the dreams and all of the dreams are nightmares, even when you’re awake.  Nobody believes anybody in here, because nobody knows the truth, and what, after, all is the truth?

Well, you and I know something of the truth, don’t we, Nanette? It all started out so beautifully, who would have thought it would end like this?

Paradise, you called it that first night at the hotel – or to be precise, a tropical paradise. You were so sweet, so pretty, with your brand new blonde streaks and your solarium tan and your travel brochure clichés. You and your girlfriend had saved all year for your South Sea holiday. Then Cherie-Lynne dumped you for Honolulu with Brett and there you were, on an island holiday all by yourself.

We couldn’t help noticing you there on the terrace. The pineapple earrings were lovely, and so was the candy pink mini dress. Both Mike and I thought the frangipani in your hair was such an original touch. I could say that we thought you were a dear little thing; but ‘little’ isn’t quite you, is it?  No, no, my dear, I’m not saying you’re fat, you’re just a sturdy, well-built girl. Asking you to join us for dinner, explaining the cocktail menu to you, well, it was our pleasure. We loved doing things like that.

Later, after I’d gone to our room and you danced on the terrace with Mike, I watched from the window. It was such a romantic sight. With the music and the margaritas floating around in your head, not to mention his YSL aftershave in your nostrils and his lips brushing your cheek, no wonder you seemed to be floating (my turn for clichés now) and the fact that he was my husband was neither here nor there.

Quite understandably, there was no losing you after that. All those other lovely young people on the beach for you to meet, but you were always, always with us. I was tempted at times to tell you that those teeny bikinis of yours were just a tad passé, but that might have hurt your feelings.  Besides, Mike was enjoying them so much. As for what went on, or came off, behind that beach umbrella while I was having my swim…I could say it was anybody’s guess. But I wasn’t guessing. I knew.

I suppose some women might have handled it differently, made sure that the two of you were never alone together. But why should I give up my swimming when it meant so much to me?

“Livvie swims like a fish!” People had been saying that since I was ten years old and it was quite true. Unlike you, my dear, I’ve always been petite and always had a certain quicksilver quality — light and graceful, full of life, dancing and darting about. And when I was in the water I was in my element. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, you must have seen it yourself. Swimming to me was almost a spiritual experience and I had to do it every day, like some people meditate. No, I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice that, not for anything.

So I let you pair go for your walks and come back with grass stains all over you and sand in your hair, and it was me who actually suggested that Mike take you out on the yacht. Coming back at three a.m was a little bit over the top, but if, as you said, you were completely becalmed, who was I to argue?

Even when I was around, you still couldn’t keep it to yourself. Those yellowy-green, long-lashed eyes of yours that reminded me of a sheep, always gazing at him across the table, following him across the room; it was all so frightfully tedious for me, but I suppose it was amusing for him.

And now I have a confession to make. I thought I had you all worked out, but I completely underestimated you. I thought I knew what would happen and exactly what you would do. There’d be some kind of passionate, tearful confrontation with Mike, or possibly even with me. Your undying love would be declared, the word ‘divorce’ would be bandied around and Mike and I would have to move on just to get you out of our hair. Ho hum, boring.

Never in a million years would I have guessed what you had in mind. The morning you suggested that you and I go snorkelling, I thought it rather odd. You and I, not you and my husband, took a little figuring out, especially when you chose such a remote and secluded beach. But then I realised that, of course, it was time for us to have our talk. You wanted that woman-to-woman chat where you told me about you and Mike and suggested that if I really cared for him, I should hand him over to you. At least that’s what I thought.

“But Livvie swam like a fish!” Do you remember them saying that? “How could she possibly have drowned when she could swim like a fish?”  Well, it’s quite easy when your legs are grabbed from behind, your head is shoved under and a hundred and fifty solid pounds are pinning you down on the reef!

“She must have dived and hit her head.” That was Mike’s offering. And the mess I was in when they found me certainly bore that out. Did you know that you were grinding my face into the coral, or was that an accident? Anyway, it matters not, because the coroner agreed with Mike. And you were so very convincing, especially when you cried and said that if you hadn’t left me while you went to collect shells, you might have been able to save my life. Accidental death by drowning. Me?? I was never more insulted in my life, or after it, come to that.

For you it almost worked perfectly, except for one little point. You didn’t know my husband any better than I knew you. If we’d had our little chat, Nanette, as I’d rather hoped we would, I could have explained how Mike and I liked to spend our holidays. I would enjoy my swimming, my shopping, the gym. I played tennis, ran on the beach, or simply lay and worked on my tan. Mike’s idea of enjoyment was to have an affair.

Some men, particularly the good-looking ones, need their occasional fling. For them, the lovesick gaze on a silly young face is the same as checking the mirror for reassurance that they’re not really middle-aged.

So we had our little understanding, Mike and I, although you couldn’t have known. I can honestly say I’m sorry that you found out the way you did.

All you tried to tell him was that now the two of you were free to love each other forever.

Him telling you where to go the way he did was not very polite and the language he used to get his message across left quite a lot to be desired. Throwing that bottle at you probably wasn’t strictly necessary either. But he was drinking very heavily at the time and I believe he was genuinely upset. Did you really think he’d be pleased that I was dead? (Incidentally, he has since been much comforted by an airline stewardess.  I understand they are on their honeymoon as we speak).

Well, this is no honeymoon for us, is it, my dear — not in a place like this? But I must say that they’ve done a superb job on the décor, all these lovely pastels and Monet prints. And you might be allowed to leave one day, although I wouldn’t count on that being anytime soon. When you snap, you certainly snap in a most spectacular way. The screaming hysteria or the glassy-eyed trance, I’m not sure which I like best. Do you still see my blood in the water? Do you still hear those grotesque gurgling moans I made? Can you still feel me threshing under your hands, frantically fighting for life? Can you still see my body rolling around in the swell? Does my poor, battered face keep haunting you? Do my dead eyes stare at you?

You’ve tried to tell them, if only they’d understand. But they can’t tell the truth from the nightmares. Only you and I can do that.

I promise I’ll never leave you…. I’ll always be here, Nanette. 

Memo to day staff from Sister Brady: Trouble with Nanette Callaghan just after 3am. She had some kind of hysterical episode and poured a bottle of eau de Cologne into the aquarium. Killed all the fish, except one!

ANN MARTIN lives in rural Tasmania with three dogs and a jazz musician. As Carol Ann Martin, she writes for children and has been published by Omnibus/Scholastic, Penguin Australia and Jet Black Publishing. When not writing juvenile fiction and picture books, Ann enjoys forays into the world of adult fiction, especially short stories and flash fiction.