Mated to a Human

☽ 3 ☾

Perry rode his bike into the garage door, and the wheel scuffed the bottom of it, leaving a streak of black. The other night, I heard Mom scolding him about it across the hall while I was on my computer in my bedroom; it was background noise, but I see it now — the scuff — along with so many little things. The number of smudges and marks on my windshield. The spiderweb tucked in the white gable of the garage roof. I see the speckles of dust and crumbs in my cupholders, the fifty-five cents and hair tie in another small compartment, and the slight droop of the mirror cover on my sun visor.

Every time I close my eyes, I see those bright, animal-like ones in the black of the woods, beaming at me.

Time doesn't seem to pass as I sit in my car, but the sun rises, making me rouse. My phone died while I was at work — I never called home to tell anyone I'm stuck in the driveway.

My eyes are dry from my sleeplessness, and my body moves sluggishly. I pop open my door and shiver when fresh air blows in. Tear stains line my cheeks below my puffy eyes, salty and tight. A sense of dizziness racks my brain when I lift myself up and off the driver's seat, so I latch onto the door and bend to rest my head on its rim.

It was almost like a dream; everything about the encounter was dream-like other than the fact that it was real. I know it was. That thing was not an animal I'd seen — it was possibly a real-life monster — and by the way it stared at me, strange and all-knowing, I know I was meant to see it.

Why did it follow me? Could it it harmless, like a lost spirit bound to the forest, watching me? Was it curious about me or hungry for me? I squeeze my eyes shut and beg whatever god is listening — please, no chase. Let that be it. Like someone who spots the flashing lights of a UFO, let me wonder about it forever and be told I'm crazy when I recall it.

Deep down, I know this encounter can't be like that, though. I won't let it.

I take myself inside once the joints in my knees and hips are stretched straight. My attention floats from the brick walkway to the porch steps, to the porch light that's usually turned off when my dad goes to bed. He has a door-lock-checking, house-securing routine which includes shutting off the outside lights.

I enter through the front door with my key and pad down the hall, desperate for a glass of water to soothe my itchy throat. When I open and close the cabinet, something stirs in my peripheral. I face the breakfast table where my dad is slumped. He rubs his eyes but truly awakens at the sight of me.

"Mia," he exclaims with half the energy needed. "W-when did you get home?"

"Late," I improvise and stand like my whole body isn't aching. "Did you wait up for me? I didn't see you in here when I got home last night. I went right to my room."

"Yeah. I think I was up till midnight. How come you were gone so late? Your mother was worried."

"I dropped a carton of milk while I was cleaning up, and it went everywhere — under things, and I couldn't reach — it was just a mess. I should have called, sorry."

His gaze holds, maybe not convinced by my subtly disheveled appearance, but he gets up and asks, "What time is it?"

"Six fifteen," I read off the microwave.

"Well, I guess I'd be getting up now anyway. I'm gonna go get ready for work, and remember what your mom says about sleeping in jeans; it's bad for your circulation or something."

"Okay. Sorry again, Dad."

He waves me off and moseys out of the kitchen, so I hurriedly fill my glass with water and hide in my bedroom to avoid any further questions, besides, I have much more crucial things to obsess over.