PROMPT: Ten fairy lights
CW(s): religious trauma, domestic/child abuse, implied murder/violence/sexual abuse, brief description of a dead body.
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There are ten fairy lights hanging above my bed.
Every night, I count them all in my head. Over and over again.
I can't sleep without them, you see. I'm too scared of what lurks in the dark, inside the closet and beneath my bed.
My mom said to "pray the monsters away". But monsters don't listen to prayers. So, I asked for the lights instead.
And every night I lay awake, counting each one in my head. Over and over again.
1...
One light, dangling from the ceiling.
It swings and flickers every time the ground shakes and the walls groan. My mom is holding on to me pretty tight and I can't move or breathe.
She covers my ears to muffle the loud sounds, but I can still hear how her voice wavers as she whispers a prayer to every God she knows. Just in case.
Tomorrow, when the ground no longer shakes, she'll deny it.
But I'll see the scars on her hands in the morning. Another burn from the candle. And I'll hear her sobbing alone in her room, asking Him to forgive her weakness.
I hope He does.
... 2 ...
Two lights. Two candles on top of mom's bedside table.
She lights them every afternoon, as soon as it gets dark. She'll take out her figurines, carefully wrapped up in a cloth under a loose board beneath the bed, and place them, one by one, on top of the table.
She's very particular about it. They each have their proper place, and they have to be placed in order, sort of like the way I used to play with my dolls.
She insists they're not toys though. She won't let me touch them, despite dragging me to her room every day to pray in front of them. I'm not sure why. But I feel like mom likes looking at their sad, smiling faces as she prays.
They're like her friends. She knows all their names and stories, and I guess she wants them to be my friends too. She says they'll protect me if I'm a good girl and pray to them every night, so they won't get lonely.
Every month, there's a new one. A new pale, wax face to add to the collection. A new friend to pray to.
I wonder what'll happen when there's no more space left on the table...
... 3 ...
Three lights. Green, red and orange.
There's only one traffic light on the way to church, but for dad it's one too many.
I can see the vein in his forehead pop every time the light is green but we're forced to stop anyway because of a traffic jam.
Time passes and the car doesn't budge an inch, and every second that ticks by just makes my dad angrier and angrier. My mom will sigh, which just makes him even more angry, but she won't dare say anything else.
I wish she did. I wish she told him that it'd be much quicker if we just walked to church, like mom and I do when it's just the two of us.
But she doesn't. Just sits there quietly with a judging or embarrassed look on her face as my dad yells obscenities and makes rude gestures at the other cars.
And then we'll get to church, already late, and dad will fall asleep or make rude remarks during mass. But I'm the one who gets dragged by the ear and yelled at when I use the Lord's name in vain.
Is God really that picky?
... 4 ...
Four headlights in the dark.
Most people in town won't drive when it's dark out. And yet, every Saturday night, I see that same car parked outside our house, half hidden behind the bushes.
My sister won't tell me who that man is. Or why she'll paint her face, or spend hours putting on those clothes that mom doesn't like, just for that man.
I saw her once, when she got back earlier than usual, slumped over on the kitchen floor, her clothes and face all worn and dirty. What's the point then, I wondered, if she's just going to look all messy again?
Her and mom used to get into huge fights over it. But not anymore. I guess they just got tired of it. One time, I heard sis say that dad never spends the night with us either, and that mom never argues with him for that.
And it's true. But I still think my sister shouldn't have said that. It just made mom sad.
Saturdays are supposed to be holy. A day to rest and praise Him, mom would say.
I used to really like Saturdays, because dad wouldn't work, sis and I wouldn't have to do homework, and even mom would take a break from housework. We would all be together, for once.
But these days, it's just mom and I. Alone in that quiet house, eating reheated leftovers on the living room carpet.
I don't think I like Saturdays anymore...
... 5 ...
Five lights. Five lamps in the hospital waiting room.
I've been there a lot. All the nurses know me by now, and they come talk to me, give me sweets or magazines to read, filled with pictures of cozy homes with nice furniture.
I like the nurses. But I don't like the looks they give me when they think I'm not looking.
Mom doesn't like them at all though. Or the doctors, for that matter.
I think she really hates the hospital and having to go there. She gets really nervous, and I used to think it was just because she didn't like visiting the doctor.
But then the nurses started to ask me weird questions. When I told mom, she stopped letting me hang out alone in the waiting room. I'd have to sit quietly next to her, her hand holding onto mine a bit too tightly as the doctor asked me questions and I answered them like mom taught me.
Most of the time it's easy. But sometimes...
Sometimes mom has to use a veil to hide her face as we walk to the hospital. Sometimes the doctor has to stitch up her face, like a doll. And she makes a brave face, but we'll get home and she'll shut herself in the bathroom to cry alone.
Sometimes, we'll have to get on a taxi, because mom can't make it on foot. Sometimes, I'm the one who has to call the taxi, and carry her there.
And suddenly it's hard. So hard not to say things that my mom doesn't want me to, no matter how hard she grips my hand. It's hard to not start crying when the nurses give me that look, or slip a sweet and a crumpled-up phone number in my jacket. Hard not to be mad at mom, for dragging me here with her, instead of sis.
And now it's even hard to look at my dad in the face when he gives me a new doll that I won't play with. Hard to look at him when he sits next to us at church, while the women behind us whisper mean things about mom and sis. Hard not to flinch when he pets my head.
It just gets harder and harder. Until one day I yell and scream at my dad, but it's mom that steps in to slap me across the face.
The next time we're in the doctor's office, mom isn't holding my hand but the right words still come out anyway.
Because God doesn't like girls who don't listen to their mother, and I'm a good girl.
Right?
... 6 ...
Six flashlights.
That's how many there are, pointing at the face of the girl being dug out of the dirt in the cemetery behind the church. I get a glimpse of it, before someone is pulling me back and covering my eyes.
But I see it. And mom sees it too, because she's screaming now, and has to be pulled back too because she's trying to get to the body.
Sis still had her makeup on.
That's all I can think about during the ride to the police station. Even in the waiting room, as a police woman tries to talk to me, that's all I can say back to her. She probably thinks I'm in shock. Or just crazy. And maybe I am.
I don't cry, or scream like mom. Not at first. I just want answers. I can't stop thinking about it.
One of the stray dogs found it, I hear. The body wasn't buried that deep, and the dog sniffed it out. Some of the kids from church say one of the nuns spotted the dog with a severed hand in its mouth, because the body had been chopped to pieces. I'm not sure if I should believe them.
But mom has stopped speaking to me and dad refuses to step foot in the house. No one tells me anything. All I hear is rumours. Rumours that my sister was a bad girl, who did bad stuff and got killed by bad people.
At church, we hear whispers from the older women, saying that God decided to punish my sister. And my mom doesn't say anything. Just keeps praying in silence.
I'm silent too. Thinking about those six lights and the messy lipstick on my sister's pale mouth.
... 7 ...
Seven lights. There are seven lights in the menorah.
That's what one of the kids at school tells me. He talks a lot, and likes to share these random facts with me.
I thought he was annoying and weird. Mom used to tell me not to speak to him because his family was one of the few who didn't go to church.
My mom stopped home schooling me, or doing much of anything, and a nun told her that it'd be good for me to go to school for a bit, so she relented.
I don't care either way. I just want to get out of the house.
It's hard though, being stared at and knowing what everyone is whispering behind your back. The 'weird boy' was the only one who spoke to me.
I don't talk much. But he doesn't seem to mind. He really does talk a lot. But I think he's pretty okay, for someone who isn't allowed to go to church.
He also knows a lot. Things good girls and boys shouldn't know about. Things like affairs and adultery. He says it's a bad thing that adults do all the time.
Like our history teacher. The postman. The town's sheriff.
My dad.
The priest did it too, he says. He used to be married, but then had an affair and got divorced. Some say he still has a secret wife in another town. I don't believe him, but he insists that the priest is a strange person. That he once saw him just sitting there in his parked car, in the dark, staring straight ahead. A fancy blue car, with four headlights.
Four headlights...
... 8 ...
Eight lights from eight stars. That's how many there are in the constellation of Ara.
At least that's what the weird boy tells me one night, right before he gives me his bike and his camera.
It's hard, at first. Never rode a bike before. But after some scrapes and bruises, I manage. I have to. I need it to follow the priest's car and see where he goes at night. It's not easy, and I fail more than once, losing sight of him.
I'm not sure what the end goal is. Maybe catch him behind a bush, waiting for another young girl to get in the car with him. Or maybe catch him dragging a chopped up body out of the trunk to burry it in the ground.
I never do though. The times where I don't lose sight of him, he just parks his car on an empty spot near the woods, turns off the lights, and just ... sits there. Just like the boy said.
I'm about to give up, all out of excuses for my mom, asking me why I was out so late. But then, one night, the priest steps out of the car and goes into the woods.
And he leaves the door open.
I'm scared. So scared. But the thought of my sister getting inside that car is all it takes. I run up to it and start looking around. I'm not sure what I'm looking for, only that I'm not finding it. All of it is empty and spotless, nothing but some documents and a bible in the glove box.
But then I notice something dangling from the rear-view mirror. Two necklaces, one with a golden cross, and another with a ring. No... not a ring. An earring. One from the pair that my sister wore one Saturday night. I remember it vividly, because sis had said that she stole it from mom.
I hear something in the woods. I'm certain he's coming back, so I take the two necklaces. And even when I see his silhouette stepping out of the woods, I don't run back. I take the sharp cross of the necklace in my hand and scrape his car door.
He yells out, noticing me and what I'm doing. But I'm already running back to the bike and ridding away. It's dark, I'm sure he didn't see my face. And even if he did, I don't care. I want him to know it was me.
I know what I did is wrong. Mom would've yelled at me, telling me it's wrong to steal.
But how can I steal something that doesn't belong to him in the first place?
... 9 ...
Nine lights from nine street lamps. That's how many there are in our street.
Mom is waiting for me, furious. We get into a fight. Just like the ones she used to have with sis. Only even worse. So much worse.
The second mom lets my sister's name slip out, everything comes pouring out. I tell her everything, I show her the earring, tell her what I did, what I'm sure happened. I think she'll understand. I'm so sure she'll take my side.
I'm not expecting that slap.
It hurts a lot more than the first time. I'm on the floor, staring at up my mom screaming at me that I'm a horrible girl, that God hates me, that he hates girls who tell lies about good men, holy men. That I will go to hell, just like my sister.
I break down into tears, crying on the living room carpet.
Mom stops screaming then. Her face and voice change.
It's a different woman who picks me up and holds me tight, just like she did that time when the ground shook. She pets my hair and wipes away my tears, telling me that she's sorry for hitting me. That it's okay, God will forgive me. Because I'm a good girl. Because I'm not like my sister. God won't punish me.
I puke on her dress and pass out.
...10
There are ten fairy lights hanging above my bed.
Every night, I count them all in my head. Over and over.
I don't sleep anymore. I just think of my sister. Reliving her whole life as her inside my head, wishing I could be brave like her, brave enough to live life the way I wanted to, to push back and not hold on so tightly to the things that people tell me.
I think of my only friend, the weird boy. I wish I knew as much as he did. I wish I had a bike and a camera, and a family who didn't have to hurt me to say they loved me.
I think about my dad. I wish I could just go away and never come back, just like he did. I wish it was as easy to leave as it was for him.
I think about the priest. I wish I could have his will and power. The will to just end someone's life, like a bug under my shoe, just another worthless body in the dirt, and just keep on living, unbothered. I wish I could do that to him. And to have the power to get away with it.
I think about my mom and her God...
And then I count to ten, all over again.
Because I'm scared of what lurks in the dark.
One ceiling light
Two candle lights
Three traffic lights
Four headlights
Five hospital lamp lights
Six flashlights
Seven menorah lights
Eight starlights
Nine street lights
Ten fairy lights
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