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See Emily. See Emily wait.
See Emily wait in the Dark.
Emily isn't a kid. She's twelve. And she's not afraid of the dark.
She used to be, though. She remembers-- or thinks she remembers-- was there? A turtle-shaped nightlight that lived in her bedroom, her small charm of safety with his soft under-shell. (Not that she needs stuffed animals anymore, either.)
What happened to him? Obviously she doesn't have him here. Whatever here is. No warm glow or a soft anything. Just the cold, and the damp, and the dark. She's alone.
Emily hunches further into her jumper, pressing herself into the corner that has to have gotten warmer from her own body heat by now, no matter how much it doesn't feel like it.
She must have given him away, Emily realizes. The idea makes her stomach sink. It shouldn't, though, it's stupid; she's too old for nightlights.
And there's no nightlights allowed on Night Street.
A clock ticks, somewhere.
... where is she? This isn't her home. Is it?
No, it can't be. She had a bedroom where the turtle could keep her company. The room that surrounds her now is way too big, and the walls are wide brick. It's scratchy and chilly on her palm when she tries to feel her way around.
Even if it wasn't so dark, it would be hard to see. A thick fog is drifting through the room from some open window. She can feel it seeping around her ankles. It smells cold, like mildewed blankets and staying awake too long.
She can't remember her house, or her bedroom, or her parents' bedroom. She's sure she has parents. There must have been someone, right? She couldn't have just lived… lived alone…
No, that was stupid -- Emily had Mum. The thought makes her feel like crying for a second, before it faded.
A clock ticks, somewhere.
... why did she want to cry?
Was it about Mum? Emily doesn't really want to think about her. She hasn't been home much. She's gone to work before Emily drags herself out of bed; and when Emily lets herself in after school she's an apologetic note on the table. Next to the note is what'll be Emily's dinner-- leftovers or some beans and toast or a herbed pasta packet.
Emily can look after herself, it's not that she needs Mum's help making dinner. But it always feels... empty in their small flat without her. Lonely. Like the leftovers on the table, cold and forgotten about.
It's cold here, too, like those crappy evenings. A clock is ticking, somewhere. Annoyance drives dull pins into her brain. She can't make herself get up.
Is this her home? Nothing looks familiar-- but maybe that's just the dark, bending shadows around to make shapes strange.
Emily isn't sure how long she's been here. Sitting by the wall and curled up as small as she can make herself. It feels like she's been still for a long time.
Before, she could push off the heaviness-- she doesn't know what else to call it-- enough to get up and walk around. Not that she has anywhere to go.
There was nothing to find. Long empty hallways that seemed like they should have echoed but were smothered by the fog. The floor squeaked under her shoes. She kept one hand on the cold wall, feeling around the edges of it as she walked, looking for… something. Anyone.
After a while she stopped. Everything hurt. Like her bones were filled with lead.
She should go back, she thought. Before she was out too far into the dark.
It felt like she walked for hours, and nothing changed. Nothing ever changes.
She must have gone in a circle, because she eventually turned back into the same room she was in before. Emily found herself sitting down in the shadows again, sagged into the wall.
It was like as soon as she was back in it, she couldn't remember being anywhere else. Always the cold. And the dark.
Somewhere a clock ticks. Like a heartbeat of some enormous monster, and she's crouched under its ribs, too scared to move. But she isn't afraid of the dark. Emily curls herself up tighter.
The fog is so thick now she can taste it. Like wet dust.
... how did she get here? Was someone coming to find her? Or did they leave her here on purpose?
Maybe she'd walked here on her own.
She couldn't remember anyone who'd be looking for her, in the dark. Mum is gone. Maybe she'd gone to the wrong place, and she was trying to— to see...
Oh, she'd had a dad. Maybe that was who she was waiting for? But that wasn't right; or not lately. Maybe… maybe Emily had used to have a dad.
She couldn't even remember what he looked like anymore. Like her, maybe--?
But what did... what did she look like? There's no mirrors. And she wouldn't be able to a see reflection anyway. Emily presses her hand to her nose and mouth, trying to warm her tingling fingers, trying to remember her own face.
Emily isn't scared. She isn't. She isn't.
This place sucks and she hates it, that's all.
Get up, she thinks to herself; she wants to be angry but there's just the sinking pit. Get up, you freak.
She can't.
Even if she tried to leave, where would she go?
To school? Hardly anyone talked to her there. Even the teachers look down their noses at her, she's missed so many classes and her homework is always sloppy.
It's just — it's hard to focus, even when she has time. It's hard to sleep alone in their flat waiting for Mum to come home. The neighbours are too loud and their buildings' furnace is always broken, and she can feel the emptiness around her like an echo, even when she's curled into the corner of her bed under tight blankets.
Maybe this is her school; that would explain why everything looks wrong. She’s never seen it in the dark.
But then where's everyone else? There have to be other kids here. Right?
No, of course there are. Even if— she stares at the wall with her eyes screwed shut, thinking— even if the only ones she can remember were the rich kids with cruel faces. They point and laugh and don't speak to her, except to call her horrible things Mum would scold her for if she tried to repeat. Their eyes burning holes in the back of her hunched shoulders.
... Emily is afraid of them. Always so worried that everyone would look at her and be able to tell everything: how she never has enough change for hot lunch, the old name she'd used in her last school, the pictures before she'd grown out her hair, the holes in all her socks and jackets, how Mum and her dad weren't married and didn't talk to each other anymore, all of it.
She remembers now— she hid between classes to get away from the pointing and the eyes, that awful burning feeling of being known.
Maybe it was her fault after all. She'd gotten lost.
She feels horribly seen even in the dark. She hugs herself. Twelve is too old to cry over nothing.
Emily pushes her chin into her knees; pulling her hood down over her face and sleeves over her hands, as if she can completely dissapear if she tries hard enough. The fog is thick and smothering. Like a damp blanket, mildewy and thick. It's easier not to think. To be still. To fold into the numbness.
(Once, she remembers, winter in their building had been particularly bad. She'd wake up, alone, to see that ice had stretched spiky fingers in from the cracked windowsill. Mum had said she'd called the landlord to fix it, but that had been a long time ago. It left offcolour drips down the wall. And on her bed, frost glittered on her blankets like broken glass. When she got up, her frozen feet would hit frozen floor. It was like walking on knives.
She'd hobble to the bathroom with its shitty water pressure, and after she sat on the edge of the tub in her pyjamas and wet hair, and cried. Even though she knew it was stupid. Even though no one could help her.)
Her mum or dad, or, or someone, might be coming back soon, she tries to think. Maybe she just— has to try harder to find them, But she knows, bleakly, it's not true. It's just so hard to move when she never gets anywhere. What's the point? And it's so hard to see. She can't go into the dark even if she wanted to-- she'd be lost.
The corner doesn't actually help, or feel safe. But at least she knows what's there... in the fog. It has a sour, sore familiarity to it as she curls up and presses back into the wall, shivering.
Emily waits.
~