by Pamela Cowan
No one heard. Minutes, that seemed like hours later, her throat was sore, her voice a raw rasping whisper. She was exhausted–with a deep, ragged breath she sank to the floor. She pressed herself against the door, as close to outside as she could get. Without thought her thumb slipped into her mouth, a habit she had outgrown by the time she was three. She closed her eyes and did the only thing left; she waited.
After awhile, once her heart had slowed and her sobs had subsided to an occasional hiccup, she began to hear—something. It was a very small noise. She only seemed able to catch it in between breaths. She held her breath to see if she could hear it. Yes, there it was. It sounded like—like someone breathing.
Her eyes flew wide with alarm. She took a long but shallow breath and held it. She heard it again. Someone was breathing. Someone–or something–was in here with her. Maybe it had always been here, hiding in the shadows where the light couldn't reach. Maybe it was a man, the man who made that girl dead. Maybe it was a big rat. Her brother had a fake, rubber rat. It was creepy, with its long naked, whippy tail and its fat pointy teeth. He was always throwing it on her lap so she would jump up and yell.
“Rats will eat your face off,” he had told her. “Bite off your nose and eat your eyeballs.”
She put her hands over her face. From her small strained throat came tiny, broken whimpers.
“No they won't”, her mom had told her. “Your brother is teasing you.” But moms lied. Moms told you shots didn't hurt, and if you're nice to him your brother won't pick on you, and your dad will be home in time to tell you a bedtime story. Still, she would give anything if her mom would come soon.
But her mom didn’t.
.
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