I remember in the Dark

A short story

Howling screams can be heard in the night, shrieking and terrified, horrible, tortured screams. Or, at least in my head they can.

I can’t tell my family. They wouldn’t understand. They would send me to some shrink, saying that I needed help. But I don’t.

They weren’t there. They don’t know. No one does. Those who did all died.

I could still hear the gunfire, the yanking terror that kept me huddled and hiding. I heard the thud of Denise hitting the flood, over and over again in my mind, I heard it over the wails, the sickening jeers, the panicked shouts, the pleas for mercy. I heard it all. And I heard the bloody gurgle. I could still see in the faint light Denise stretching her hand towards me. I could feel her eyes on me, black holes looking at me in the dim light.

I had cursed her, yelling and screaming at her in my mind that she was going to give me away. That I would die too because of her.

I now live with that.

Now I live with the choked off screams, with the wailing sobs, with the shaky and penetrating, “Please, please, please, plea-” gunshot.

I forgot everything else from that night. It was a long time ago. I blocked most of it. Sealed it away. But I know from experience that if I try, I can remember every little detail. You can cover a brand with makeup, but it’s still there.

When it gets dark, even if I’m with a friend, having a good time and laughing, I sometimes hear a faint wail, a bloody gurgle, a terrified scream.  And I shut-up, because someone might hear me and I would be next.

I’ve lost many potential friends that way. They didn’t understand. Noone did. That “tragedy” was forgotten in most people’s memories. It was an uproar for maybe two weeks. Two months for the people who knew the victim. Then it was just something people went “Oh, yeah” to whenever it was mentioned, if it was ever mentioned at all.

People don't like being sad. They like people around them who are happy and upbeat, because that stuff is contagious, those who drag them down are ditched. Most people are like that. There are a few friends I have who sympathize and offer a shoulder, and let me huddle in on myself as I relive it again. With them at least, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to, but I do.

I can see the suffering in their eyes, I can see that I am not much fun to be with when I’m like that. So I continue to talk and laugh, and bundle it up for later. I let it out when I’m alone, freaking out internally in peace without bothering to anyone.

I sometimes wonder if it would have been better had I died that night. I wouldn’t have to suffer as much. I wouldn’t have to be so much of a burden to my parents and those too sympathetic for their own good. My parents would have found a way to move on, they were lost with this lost cause.

But just like then, I am too much of a coward to die.

Author's Note

I often have trouble with coming up with weird ways of saying things, if you come across something distracting, please alert me. Also if there are any other typos you notice, a comment would be appreciated.
If there are any comments on the likelihood of this viewpoint, please let me know.