Over My Shoulder

Lightning strikes outside as the rain slowly pitter-patters down the window, the thunder shaking the house and making the lights flicker for the third time tonight. Usually the electricity is good during storms, but not tonight. Maybe mom had forgotten to pay the bill and they were slowly stopping the electricity? Or maybe something happened to the box things on the poles that line the streets. What did dad call those? Generations? Gators? I don't know. It's too big of a word to remember, and I'm only nine. I'm not good with words too much, only numbers. "Jonathon? Where are you?" Mom's voice floats up the stairs as another crack of thunder rumbles through the floorboards, her cough echoing in the stairwell outside my room. Her voice sounds like summer, if that's possible. I'm sitting on a chair in front of the window, calmly watching the storm. It's a fun pastime for me. It calms the noise in my head and helps me think. I'm good with numbers, so I make it a game to count each raindrop that falls down the window, and when I lose track I start over. I've counted 728 raindrops, eight thunder claps, and too much lightning. That's the harder part to keep track of since it's so bright. They overlap each other and blind me, the flashes confusing my brain. I don't focus on those. 753 raindrops now. My door creaks open behind me as a sniffle screeches out. "Jonathon? Oh, there you are. Sweetie,  why don't you come downstairs? Your favorite movie's on, and popcorn is made." I slowly stand up and grab my blanket off the chair's back. By favorite movie I hope she means The Iron Giant. Hogarth and the Giant help me sleep after I've lived a short cartoon fantasy. Mom's hair, a long, wavy brown, is out of its usual high ponytail and now flows in waves down her back, the light catching it just right to make it look shiny. I interlace my hand with her slender one and let her lead me to the stairs. I hate stairs. They're creaky and dangerous and high. I'm not fond of heights, and these stairs always give me the creeps. Head diving down them by accident when I was seven didn't help that matter any. I'm glad mom's hand is holding mine and I'm glad she's there to walk down them with me. My mom's brave. Brave and beautiful. That must be why she married my dad. He's brave, too. He's a police officer, and mom runs a daycare. They're perfect for each other. I wonder when dad will get home, and if he'll be back in time to set me on his lap while we watch the movie together. He's always warm and makes me feel safe when he snuggles into me, sandwiching me between him and mom. The thunder rumbles again and this time the power flickers off and doesn't come back on, the lights dying as one with a sizzled zapping noise. The stair that I had been focusing on below me disappears and I feel like I'm falling, but I know I'm not because mom's hand is still gripping mine, holding me up. "Honey, hey, it's okay. The storm just knocked out the power for a little bit. It'll be alright." I feel her hand leave mine and a sob chokes its way out. I feel my body lift up as her hands hold onto me tightly, my legs eagerly wrapping around her waist as my arms quickly grip around her neck. I bury my face quickly into her shoulder, breathing in her perfume. It's a calming, flowery scent, and I breathe it in through widened nostrils. She's carrying me. She's just going to carry me. It's okay. Maybe the power will come back on and we'll be okay. We won't be in the dark. We glide down the stairs quickly and hurry into the living room where a few candles are already burning. Mom always has those burning, except for when she goes to bed. She blows them out when she goes to bed to be safe from a possible fire during the night. She says they symbolize Lucy's life. Lucy was my sister. I never got to meet her because she died shortly after she was born. Her candles are what light up the living room now. I'm glad for that. "I'm going to call your father, okay, Jonathon? Can you sit on the couch and be very quiet while I do that? I want to see when he'll be home, if he's not held up by the storm. Can you do that for me, baby?" I nod and she pulls out her cell phone. The powers out but maybe that phone will work. I know the one on the wall won't. That's connected by the same thing the TV is, and my movie isn't playing. Mom grunts as she punches numbers into her phone, then slowly starts walking out of the living room, her fingers still punching buttons as she grumbles to herself. "Hello?" Her voice is calm as it drifts from the next room over, then I hear her grunt again. "Jonathon, I'm going to go upstairs to see if I get any service there. Will you be alright for two minutes while I go do that?" I nod again, knowing she can't see, but knowing she'll understand my silence. She always understands my silence. Her feet pad up the stairs with barely a noise, but I hear. Five steps, six steps, seven steps, eight steps, nine steps, then her feet pad across the ceiling. Well, she wasn't on the ceiling, but her footsteps echo through the floorboards as she walks across the second floor. Silence. The only thing that breaks the silence is the rain showering down outside and the occasional thunderclap that shakes the house. Lightning still lights up the outside every now and then. I try to focus on counting again. How long between each thunderclap? One second, two seconds, ten seconds, then CLAP. One second, two seconds, five seconds, then a bang outside makes me lose count. I try again after the thunder sounds and dies back down. One second, two seconds, then three more bangs sound. I've heard the sound before, on TV. A slamming door? No. Drums. I've heard the drums before, but they're not drums, not really. I can't help myself. I jump as another one sounds, followed closely by a KZZRH sound as the echo of glass shattering somewhere outside resonates on the walls. Screams start to sound outside the walls. The house shakes and, soon, I'm mimicking it. Bright orange light flashes in front of the house, the window lighting up as if the sun were right outside the window, its rays happily peeking in, but I know it's not the sun. More bangs and pops sound outside, quick screams filling the emptiness between them, and I'm frightened, but not crying. Where's mom? Why isn't she down here? She went to find a signal but she should have come back down. She should have. Shouldn't the noise have drawn her back down here to see if I was okay? I race towards the stairs, my fear of heights fleeing like my legs, as the front window shatters and rains glass onto the floor. My body freezes on the stairs as I turn and glance into the living room. On the dark brown leather couch where I was sitting now dances a flame that's spitting heat and fury, the metal hood of a car peeking through the orange haze. Lucy's candles are nonexistent in the fire's presence. I gather my wits quickly and bolt up the rest of the stairs as screams start to sound more urgently and frequently outside. There's a car burning in our living room. It took out Lucy's spot. Fear gnaws in my belly as I race up the steps, no longer counting them as I bound up their wooden faces. "Mom!" The first real words I've spoken, fully able to be heard. She should be proud, or at least frightened enough to come running to see why I've finally spoken. I only ever recite numbers aloud, or my name occasionally, but I've never spoken much else besides that. "Mo-o-om!" I round the corner and decide to head to her room first. She wouldn't go to my room, but she would go to hers. Her propped door says the same as my thoughts. I hurry forward, then stop as a yelp comes from inside. Biscuit? Biscuit's our little beagle, only nine months and seventeen days old. Another window shatters downstairs as the smell of pennies and perfume overwhelms my senses. I slowly push the door open and ignore the noise coming from the streets downstairs. The room is dark and gloomy, the King size bed overlaid in shadows, the dresser strewn with mom's makeup and perfumes. The whole room is still in order. Except for one spot. The spot at the foot of the bed on the floor where Biscuit is lying, his fur matted and dirty, as mom crouches over him, her face buried in his coat. He's sleeping, from the looks of it. I wonder what he's dreaming about. Is it a happy dream? Or is he having a nightmare since he yelped? I cautiously take a step forward, the dark sending shivers down my spine. Mom's body stiffens as I step forward, her head slowly lifting so her eyes can meet mine. I hear myself scream, an almost alien sound, like I'm not even me. Blood drips down her neck in small rivulets as blood seeps from her mouth and nose, her cheeks already stained with the red liquid. Her mouth hangs open, her pink stained teeth like beacons as her yellow dyed eyes stare at me. Greenish colored pus leaks like tears as she stares my way. I whimper as she struggles to stand, the realization hitting me quickly. I've never been good with words, only numbers, but now I feel the whole dictionary escaping into me. Biscuit's dead. There's a hole in his stomach, his entrails slowly seeping out. A piece of furry skin is still clutched in mom's hand as she pushes to her feet and slowly starts to walk towards me. I back up towards the door, my hands splayed behind me. "Mom?" A screech escapes her throat instead of any words or explanation. A screech that pierces my eardrums and makes me cover my ears.  A screech that sends me sprawling backwards onto the floor as she rushes forward, her fingers splayed apart. I've never been good with words, but as I stare up into her yellowed eyes and bloodied face as she pins me to the ground, I can find a few that would state the obvious. I'm going to die at the hands of my own mother, a woman who was casually helping her mentally disabled son down the stairs not even ten minutes ago. I, Jonathon, am going to die at the age of nine, only remembered by the numbers I would say aloud sometimes and the screams I would let loose in the middle of the night. Her fingers are no longer warm and caring as they tighten around my arms, and her face no longer beautiful as she brings it down to my neck, her teeth already tearing at the soft flesh there. The scream I wanted to let out is drowned by the blood pooling freely in my throat, the warm, sour liquid gagging me in a gurgle. I squeeze my eyes closed as I hear a shout from outside the room, then a bang. I realize now what the sounds were outside as they now start up in the room. Gunshots. I remember dad telling me that. Where is dad? He should have come home. The weight of mom falls onto me, her teeth still locked into my jugular, but I don't even feel it. I open my eyes and the last thing I see before blackness takes over is the face of my mother, her blue eyes clear and bright and her hair trailing behind her, as she leans down and lifts me into the air, her white dress flowing as bright, white light envelopes us.