I never wanted children of my own. I struggled so much to take care of myself that I couldn’t be responsible for another person. I used to wake up in the morning, shivering in anticipatory grief; an unholy breeze whistling through my ribs, filling my body with emptiness. I didn’t have the energy to visit friends, not that I still had any. After you stop replying, they don’t invite you out anymore. I couldn’t go to work. The paycheck wasn’t worth the effort it took to drive to the office, cross the parking lot, log in, and run spreadsheets that didn’t matter. My misery blotted out everything; why would I share it with a baby? Then, Rachel told me she was pregnant. A niece. That felt different. The idea of my own daughter was like dragging a defenseless victim into a pit. My twin’s daughter, growing inside her, was like a tiny birthday candle in the darkness. I would do anything for that little light.
I lift my head from my hiding place in the bushes, scanning the street for cars. They rarely make it all the way to the end of the cul-de-sac, but in my condition, I couldn’t outrun a leaf riding the wind, let alone a police car. I hobble across the perfectly paved road toward my sister’s house, favoring my right side, limping to take as much weight off my broken foot as I can. My body is stiff and crackled, my skin splintering at the joints like an old porcelain doll handled carelessly. I feel like I’ve been handled carelessly, too—by myself, by family, by life? I’m not sure where this feeling came from. Maybe I am too sensitive. Everyone said so. Now it’s just tangibly true.
A spray of pink balloons is anchored beside the driveway. Rachel must have had a girl. I cradle a careworn stuffed rabbit in my arms. An offering for my little birthday candle. A big sign on the front porch proclaims, “A Baby’s Been Brewing!” The pun would annoy me if it were anyone else, but it’s my sister, who owns a coffee shop; she gets a free pass for anything.
I can’t go through the front door, someone might see me, so I slink around the side of the house with aching caution. Every step sends a crinkle of pain through my broken body. I slump to rest on the mulch beside the kitchen door, it doesn’t matter if my hospital pajamas get dirtier. I didn’t have the will to shower before I was admitted, so this isn’t so bad. Sneaking around in filthy clothes is familiar, like cuddling an ex you never thought you’d see again. The discomfort of the broken pieces of my foot rattle unsettlingly inside my grippy socks. I didn’t even have time to grab shoes.
I peel back the edge of the sock and take inventory of my damaged foot. When I’d agreed to participate in Dr. Morgan’s secret drug trial, she told me there might be some side effects; things like fatigue, nausea, even bowel irregularity. “Nothing is certain,” she’d said. Drug trials are experimental, but nothing else would touch my hopelessness. I welcomed any change, and she reminded me why I’d gone into treatment in the first place.
“If this makes a difference, you might be able to make it to that baby shower.”
Dr. Morgan dangled that delicious carrot above my head and I placed her untested pill on my tongue like the Body of Christ. I prayed they would make me less sensitive. I woke brittle, like an antique Christmas ornament, my skin inflexible, my body hollow. A medical marvel. A personal nightmare.
I roll the sock all the way off, and my toes are gone.
“Oh, shit!” I gasp. The edge of my foot is a jagged cliff of shattered skin. Is it skin? Can I still call it skin? It looks like a broken piece of pottery. The inside of my foot is dry and hollow. I shake the sock like a grocery bag. Pale, crumbled bits of me spill out, and I gag. I can’t throw up. I can’t throw up. Would I survive throwing up? Everyone said I’m too sensitive.
A chortle of laughter catches my ear, and I freeze. The sound is carried on the breeze. Everyone must be in the backyard. With the party outside, out of view, I’m safe to sneak inside. I reach up from where I’m crouched and gently rattle the door handle. It’s locked, but I know this house’s secrets like I know my sister’s heart. I roll to my side so I can dig around under the doormat. I told Rachel it was stupid to keep a spare key under a mat that literally says, “Welcome to the Davis House,” but now I’m glad she ignored me. I pull myself to standing, my broken, toeless foot dangling uselessly in the air, and I let myself in.
Rachel’s house is so achingly cheerful. I feel her presence like a kiss on the forehead. The gift table is covered in a daisy yellow tablecloth. Not a plastic tarp, but a real fabric tablecloth embroidered with little white hearts. Surprises for Rachel, my brother-in-law, Jeff, and the baby are wrapped lovingly and topped with bows and ribbons. I never felt safe thinking about children of my own, but seeing this celebration for my sister and her baby almost makes me wonder if I’d been wrong.
On the days I wasn’t enough for myself, Rachel filled in the gaps. She made me eat meals when I wasn’t hungry. When I couldn’t afford my apartment, she and Jeff made up the couch for me, even as they prepared for their baby. Maybe I was lonely, but when I thought I was alone, Rachel was there. She took care of me almost like she was rehearsing for her own child. She told me I wasn’t too sensitive. Maybe I tried to do too much by myself when I didn’t have to. I may never know.
Outside, the sizzle of grilling meats mingles with the conversations:
“Seven pounds and two ounces? What a healthy baby!”
“What color is the nursery?”
“Is Rachel planning to go back to work, or is she a stay-at-home mommy now?”
The voices are a kaleidoscope of our friends and family making cheerful sounds. I’m jealous of their joy. The last time we were all together, I didn’t have the heart to make small talk, and I didn’t have the desire to make big talk. I was so deep in my loneliness and I couldn’t talk to anyone. I don’t remember why we were together; maybe a birthday or an anniversary, it doesn’t matter. We weren’t celebrating me, but it wouldn’t have mattered. In a sick mind, you can be alone and surrounded by love at the same time.
“Brad,” my mom’s voice rises above the rest, clear and sweet. There’s a hesitation to her tone, like a radio station that can’t hold reception. “Would you get the door?”
My dad slides the porch door open, and I scurry to hide under the gift table. My broken foot catches on the floor as I drag myself out of sight. A piece of my ankle cracks off, but there’s no time. I leave the fragmented piece of me in their path.
Mom only makes it partway into the room before a shy sob overtakes her.
“Denise,” my dad whispers. I peer out from under the tablecloth to watch him take an empty tray from her, pulling her into a helpless embrace. They hold onto each other, quietly crying. Outside, the party rings on; inside, they share a tableau of off-stage grief. My mom pulls away from him and wipes her eyes.
“I just wish Shelby were here.”
“I know. Me too. We could have postponed—”
“No,” Mom interrupts. “Rachel needed this. I needed this. And I think Shelby would have wanted us to celebrate the baby. She was so excited to be an aunt.”
A smile flickers on Dad’s face. “Yes, she was. God, it was good to see her happy about something.” He strokes Mom’s long, chestnut hair. His voice catches in his throat, and he stutters, “I don’t know why nothing else made her happy.”
Sorrow wells up inside me, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out, “I tried!”
I tried every day. I tried everything. I tried talk therapy, I tried group therapy, I went for walks in nature, I took medication, I meditated, I counted my blessings. Nothing soothed, but I wanted to be ready for that baby so I checked myself into treatment. I explained all of this to Dr. Morgan, but she still sent me to group therapy on my first day, and she put me on medication. We even met one-on-one. I ran on her pointless hamster wheel for a month without change.
“It’s rare that I see a patient putting in the effort and not receiving any benefit,” Dr. Morgan had said.
I was curled up on her office couch, my arms wrapped around my knees, too numb to cry. I lived so deep in my own thoughts, her voice was like an echo at the end of a dark tunnel.
“I’d like to offer you an alternative to our standard course of care, if you’re open.”
I nodded in the direction of her voice.
“Your condition is rare, but not singular. I have a few other patients who are resistant to the healing they need, through no fault of their own. I believe the mind and body aren’t always in agreement with what’s best for the soul. You know you want to feel better, you want to be a part of your life, but something gets in the way. I have a theory that it’s more than willpower or chemicals. At least, not the chemicals you’ve been taking.”
“I think we’ve tried every medication,” I picked at a dangling thread, the edge of my t-shirt unraveling like my hope. “Nothing makes a difference.”
“The problem with what you’ve been working with is that it’s not . . . specific enough.”
I lifted my head, “What does that mean?”
“Well,” she began. “What do you think is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know. Everything?”
“That’s too general,” she said. “What did you tell me people say about you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it . . . that you’re too sensitive?”
Sensitive. That word rippled through my thoughts like a sonic boom, and I started to cry. Suddenly, I wasn’t listening to Dr. Morgan at the end of a dark tunnel. I sat in her office, unable to work, unable to go home, losing the fight against my mind. The reality was rug-burn raw, and I broke down in front of her.
“Shelby,” she spoke over my tears. They were flowing and unashamed, but quiet. “I’d like to put you in my experimental program. It’s just a few of you, and I’d ask that you not tell the other patients.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Everything has a certain level of risk.” She placed an orange, unlabeled pill bottle on the table with a single pill inside. “But I think this could be worth the risk. This new medication targets your most prevalent issues and amplifies them. I think we’re struggling to treat all the parts of your psychosis. Working on one symptom at a time could help us bring you back to your family a little faster.”
I palmed the bottle, rattling the lonely little capsule.
“If this makes a difference, you might be able to make it to that baby shower.”
I rattled the bottle again. It sounded worth the risk to me, too.
I watch my parents and the new risk I’m in. The broken piece of my ankle lies on the floor, inches from where they’re hovering.
“When do we tell people?” Dad asks.
“Not today,” Mom answers. “Today we celebrate the baby. Next week we can plan her funeral.”
“What if the fire makes the news before—”
“I don’t care! And I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Dad sighs. “I . . . don’t know how to . . . do any of this. I don’t understand . . . anything. I just wanted our girls to be happy.”
“Do you think we did something wrong with Shelby?”
“What could we have done differently?” he asks. “Why did Rachel turn out fine? We raised them the same, gave them the same opportunities, the same love. Maybe it wasn’t enough for Shelby. What were we supposed to do, take things away until she wasgrateful?”
His words are a knife in my heart, but I don’t disagree. We did have everything; a good education, Girl Scouts, slumber parties, family vacations, but none of it eased my anxious soul. We had all the same ingredients. Rachel took in her blessings and made her mind a summer day. My thoughts roiled like an overcast sky. No amount of gratitude brought sunshine.
“I just wanted her to be . . .” Mom tidied the little stack of cocktail napkins, spilling them in a perfect fan across the buffet, “less sensitive.” She smooths the front of her dress before stepping into her composed Party Host persona. She drifts into the kitchen, Dad trailing behind. He kicks the small piece of my broken ankle, stoops, and picks it up.
“Denise, watch your step. I just found a broken piece of something.”
Mom and Dad rattle wordlessly in the kitchen. There are no stray footsteps coming from the back patio and the path to the stairs is unguarded for now. Soon, the house will be flooded with loving onlookers to watch Rachel open gifts. I have to move quickly. I dart across the hall like an injured animal, trailing the dust of myself, the bunny tucked under my arm.
The morning everything changed, I woke up with the bunny tucked under my arm. Cradling my security stuffy this way sends me right back to the hospital. The moment is so fresh, my heart can’t tell the difference between the memory and the present. I had curled into myself with the bunny. Wrapped in the strained embrace of the hospital sheets, stiff and achy, but the clouds over my head had dissipated. I blinked my eyes open, taking inventory of my emotions to find a foreigner: happiness. I started to cry, and the cool tears celebrated the release I’d been yearning for. I swung my feet over the side of the bed, springing from the thin mattress, but the moment I landed, a sickening crunch radiated from the bottom of my feet up through my body.
Did I break my ankle just getting out of bed?
I examined my foot to find a jagged fracture running up my leg, tapering off at the knee. The point of impact radiated from its center like a windshield on the edge of shattering. My skin shone like the candy coating of a movie theatre treat; a hard shell, resistant and fragile on the same body. I tried to put weight on my foot, but it began to break into pieces, so I pulled on my grippy hospital socks to hold my injury together.
“Hello?” I called out. Whispering voices hissed outside my door, but no one answered me. I caught stray words: side-effects, mistake, like the others. Words spoken about me, but not for me.
“Can someone help me?”
The voices went silent and hurried away.
I waited for help. I waited for breakfast. I waited for lunch. I waited for dinner. None of it came.
The sky grew dark before I heard a click at my door. Had someone unlocked my door?
“Hello?” I called out.
Bang. A crisp gunshot rang out through the silence, followed by screaming and chaos in the hall. I dropped to the ground, crawled to the door, and peered out into the hall. A massive figure ran toward me, and I recognized Big Jim. We’d been in group therapy together. He treated me like a little sister, saving me a donut and coffee every time. He was my big teddy bear with anger issues. Dr. Morgan warned him that his hot temper would be the end of him.
A bullet ripped through him, dropping Big Jim like a bull moose. He’d cried out, but his words flared from his mouth as hot licks of fire, his pleas igniting the hallway. Our eyes met. “Run,” he’d muttered as the light in his eyes turned dark.
I hobbled from the room with my stuffed rabbit under my arm.
“Stop!” An unfamiliar voice chased me down the hall, followed closely by more gunshots.
“Shelby? Come back!” Dr. Morgan shouted, but I trusted Big Jim more. I rounded a corner and ducked behind a janitor’s cart. Heavy boots pounded past me, a pack of wolf-like guards barked orders back and forth, and above them, one voice: Dr. Morgan.
“Yes, shoot to kill!”
The fire alarm began to wail as smoke and heat seeped toward me. I slipped around the cart and mixed in with the other . . . patients? Inmates. I joined the evacuation until I could break away toward the fence. I launched the stuffed bunny over the barbed wire and began to climb. Behind me, the building smoldered, a ruby silhouette against the blackness of night.
It’s only been a couple of days since I escaped, but living on the run makes the hours both short and eternal. Nowhere is safe, but I’m not planning to run forever. I just have a delivery to make before I turn myself in.
I reach the top of the stairs and slip into the baby’s room. The last time I was in here, it smelled like drying paint and particle board. Now it smells like baby powder, flowers, and new life. And there she is, my perfect niece. I hold my breath as I inch across the floor toward the crib and stare down at her in awe. Her eyes go wide, taking me in with unvarnished curiosity.
“Hello, baby,” I whisper, pride and sadness welling up inside me. “You’re such a little, tiny, sweet thing.”
I reach down to touch her little hand, and she grabs hold of my finger with all the ferocity of a daisy. I smile, and even though I can feel the brittle edges around my eyes fracture, I can’t stop myself. I haven’t smiled in so long, I’m grateful that I still know how. She squeezes my finger, and all of her might isn’t enough to make my hand crumble; she’s so new her strength hasn’t begun to bloom.
“Look at your fearsome grip,” I coo. “What is your name?”
I scan the room for a sign: a name tag, an embroidered blankie, anything with the kiss of personalization. Above the crib, her name decorates the wall in painted wooden letters. How could I have missed it?
Collette Shelby Davis.
A sob catches in my throat. “Oh, baby girl. I’m your Aunt Shelby. We have a lot in common. Two little girls made of glass. I hope you can be stronger than I am.” I tuck the stuffed bunny beside her. “This is Bun Bun. He always kept me safe. Now he can keep you safe.”
The whoop of a siren outside silences the party. A cop car and an ambulance skid to a stop in Rachel’s driveway. I peek outside and I can see Dr. Morgan in the passenger seat of the ambulance.
“I have to go now.” I stroke her head, etching every second into my mind. This may be the last time we ever see each other. She will forget me, but I will never forget her. “Shelby?” I look up to see Jeff standing in the doorway. The color has drained from his face—he’s seeing a ghost. I limp backwards.
“Stay back, Jeff. Don’t come near me.” I hold my trembling hands up, as if I could keep anyone at arm’s length. Someone runs up the stairs, taking each step two at a time. I know it’s Rachel, like I know the sound of my own heartbeat. She pushes past Jeff, stumbling into the room.
“Oh, my god, Shelby? You’re alive?”
Her face is colored by conflicting shades of betrayal and relief. She reaches out for me.
“No, Rachel, you can’t—”
But she lunges at me, pulling me into a tight embrace. She buries her face in my unwashed hair and sighs. My ribs collapse in her arms, crushing my heart, crumbling my skin, decimating my body. She shrieks, releasing me, and I shatter across the carpet.
“I love y . . .” I struggle to form words as my last flicker of consciousness winks out like a dying star.
Ashley Huyge (she/her) is a writer, educator, and course designer. A longtime lover of speculative fiction, dark fantasy, and horror, she finds dark and unexpected themes a comforting way to explore the things that scare us. Reading and writing horror is the safest way to enjoy recreational fear. Her writing has appeared in the flash fiction anthology Darkness 101 Lessons Were Learned. A transplant living in Southern California, she enjoys supernatural movies, Americanos, and sunshine from a shaded vantage point. She lives with her husband, her cats, and her dreams.
