Untitled Fiction

By Alexandra Morton

The girl lies in the dark, listening to the incessant hum of the refrigerator. It’s steady, predictable: the only constant in her life. Every morning she awakens to the loud grind and stir of the appliance. 

She rolls over and extends her arms, stretching out like a cat. She takes a deep breath, but the stale air forges an itch in her throat. It causes her to cough and sputter as though she has swallowed a sheet of dust. The sun has just begun to rise and seeps through the crevices of the blinds. She winces at the stream of light infiltrating her room. Lately, she hasn’t been sleeping well; even the wind whistling through the trees, causing them to sway and dance, can’t manage to lull her to sleep like it used to. Her mutt outstretches at the end of her bed. He has tufts of fur missing from his ashen coat and dark, worn gums where teeth once used to be. 

The girl braces herself and sits up, brushing her knotted hair out of her face. She jams her foot into her slipper, then slides her thin arms into her crutches. She has to maneuver around the pail sitting in the corner of her room, catching the murky water that has been dripping from the roof for days. She nudges at her bedroom door and it opens slowly, the hinges whining. Right outside her room stands the kitchen; just ten feet away, the white refrigerator hums its familiar tune. The dog follows the girl into the kitchen, head hanging low, and heaves a great sigh. “You’re awake early,” the girl’s father utters. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replies, pulling out a chair from the dining table, the legs scratching against the wooden floors. 

“I made you some oatmeal,” he says, sliding a bowl in front of her. He never cooks. The girl knows her father’s guilty conscience is gnawing at him, breaking him down piece by piece. She pulls the bowl of oatmeal closer to her and takes a bite. She swallows a spoonful of the gritty oats; it burns on the way down. The room is silent—the girl’s father picking at the dirt under his nails, hovering over her awkwardly—until a deafening scream echoes from her lips. She feels an excruciating pain flood through her. Reaching down, she grabs for her leg…but there’s nothing there but a smooth, round nub. Her father rushes to her side and kneels next to her. 

“You scared me,” he stammers, “You remember what the doctor said, right?” “It’s just my brain playing tricks on me,” she answers while massaging her thigh. She gets up, grabs her crutches, and pushes past her father. She throws her bowl into the sink and

globs of oatmeal spray onto the counter. When she was younger, her father would have yelled at her; but now, he hesitates. 

“I know it hasn’t been easy for you at school, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to behave this way. I’m just trying to help you.” Her father grabs a dish towel and wipes the oatmeal from the counter. 

“Help?” she shouts. “This is your fault!” 

“Come on,” her father says, “You know you don’t mean that.” 

“Maybe I do.” 

— 

The hammock sways back and forth under the towering pine tree. The breeze tickles the girl’s face and, for a moment, she feels at peace. The dog lies under the swaying hammock, licking his paw. The girl doesn’t want to leave, but she’s already late for school and rain has started to fall. She takes one last breath of fresh air and climbs down from the hammock. “Come on,” she calls, pulling her sneakers back on. 

The dog trots behind her lackadaisically. She trudges uphill, being careful not to trip on any roots emerging from the ground. Raindrops continue to plummet from the sky and cling to her body. She wraps her coat tighter around herself. The wind picks up, howling and whistling, causing trees to shudder and leaves to whip through the air. The dog begins to whine and cower. 

“It’s okay,” she reassures the old dog. 

Just as the girl approaches the clearing, she hears the rumble of thunder. A zap of lightning crashes down to Earth, exploding like a firework. She watches a branch fly off a tree and hurdle toward the ground. The dog runs as fast as his legs will take him out of the forest. She lags behind him, muttering to herself. She reaches the border of the forest and enters the clearing. The dog stops right next to the dilapidated garden shed. He turns toward her and barks, looking her dead in the eyes. She stops for a second. She doesn’t like the look in his eyes—as though he is looking through her, not at her. Lightning strikes again and she hears a snapping sound, like a large pencil breaking in two. She gazes up at an enormous tree that seems to be tilting toward her. In an instant, the tree starts shooting toward her. The ground vibrates as the tree slams into the wet grass. It is silent…and then she screams. 

The dog speeds back to the house. He scratches at the door, bellowing and crying. The girl can be heard in the distance, calling out for her father. She knows her father is home; she

doesn’t know why he isn’t listening. The dog can see him in the house; he paws violently at the door. Through the glass window, he is visible, slouched in a rocking chair. There is a glass bottle shattered below him, the brown liquid seeping into the carpet. 

The father will not wake for hours. Not for the dog scratching at his door or his daughter screaming his name. The girl will stay there until her leg goes numb. The dog will stop barking. He will go back to her side and sit there, lapping up her tears. The father will wake up in the evening. He will step outside. 

The father will realize he’s made the biggest mistake of his life.