Flash Fiction on Lit Up
The Probability of Shadows
On second chances
It’s 3:00 AM, and the shadows in my apartment are talking to me again. I’m not sure if it’s the insomnia or something more sinister, but their whispers are persistent, echoing through the dimly lit room. I’m sitting on the edge of my unmade bed, the city’s neon glow seeping through the half-open blinds, casting fractured beams across the floor. The air is thick with the scent of old books and the faintest hint of lavender from the sachets my mother sent last Christmas, still stuffed into the dresser drawers.
“Do it now,” one of the shadows hisses. It’s always urging, always pulling me towards the brink of some unnamed action. The clock on the wall ticks incessantly, a reminder of the linear progression of time that my mind refuses to accept.
I remember the first time the shadows spoke to me. It was during a summer thunderstorm, the sky ripping open with a ferocity that seemed almost personal. I was thirteen, huddled under my blankets, the shadows on the walls dancing in the candlelight. They whispered secrets, truths about the universe that seemed profound and terrifying. Now, they demand.
The shadows want me to understand the nature of reality, to embrace the multiplicity of existences. They say every decision splinters the universe into new possibilities, each as real as the next. I often think about my father, who walked out the door one morning and never returned. The shadows tell me he’s living in one of those alternate realities, a place where he made a different choice. I want to believe them.
“Choices are the hinges of destiny,” they murmur. I light a cigarette, the smoke curling up to mingle with the darkness. My reflection in the cracked mirror across the room is gaunt, eyes hollow from too many sleepless nights. I flick ash into a chipped mug, wondering if, in some parallel universe, there’s a version of me who sleeps soundly, untouched by these nocturnal visitations.
A sudden knock at the door jolts me from my reverie. It’s Helen, my neighbor from across the hall, her eyes wide and fearful. She’s wearing that same red coat she always wears, making her look like she’s stepped out of an old film noir.
“Did you hear it?” she asks, voice trembling. “The screaming?”
I didn’t, but I nodded anyway because I could see the shadows curling around her feet, whispering the same secrets they told me. She’s caught in this web, too, whether she knows it or not.
We sit in the living room, our silence heavy with unspoken fears. Helen talks about her ex-husband and how he used to scream in his sleep, haunted by things he never shared. I listen, the shadows weaving stories around her words, filling in the gaps with their narratives.
Mid-story, she stops, eyes darting to the window. “Did you see that?” she whispers. “Someone was out there.”
I glance over, catching just a glimpse of a figure disappearing into the night. The shadows are more agitated now, their whispers more strident. They’re telling me to follow, to chase the possibilities that slip away like sand through my fingers.
I grab my coat and Helen’s hand, pulling her towards the door. “We need to see,” I say, and she nods, too afraid to refuse.
The stairwell is cold, the echo of our footsteps swallowed by the darkness. Outside, the city is eerily quiet, the usual hum of traffic replaced by an oppressive stillness. We follow the figure, a man in a dark coat, his movements deliberate and unnervingly familiar.
As we turn a corner, he stops, and I see his face clearly for the first time. It’s my father, older but unmistakably him. The world seems to tilt, the shadows around us swelling and writhing in response.
“Dad?” The word is barely a whisper, but he hears it, turning slowly. There’s a moment of recognition, a flash of something in his eyes that could be guilt, relief, or maybe both.
Helen’s grip tightens on my hand, grounding me as the shadows close in, their whispers now a deafening roar. My father steps closer, his voice breaking the spell. “I made a choice,” he says, “and it led me here.”
The shadows swirl around us, their murmurs a constant undercurrent as he speaks. He tells me about his life and choices, each a thread in the tapestry of his existence. He’s been haunted by those decisions, by the roads not taken, just as his absence has haunted me.
In this moment, I see the truth the shadows have been trying to show me. Every decision and every action creates ripples far beyond what we can see. My father’s choices led him away, but they also led him back, and in this intersection of our paths, I find a strange sense of closure.
The shadows begin to recede, their whispers fading as the first light of dawn breaks over the horizon. Helen squeezes my hand one last time before stepping back, giving us space. My father and I stand there, two silhouettes against the growing light, connected by the tenuous threads of our shared history.
“Let’s go home,” he says, and I nod, knowing that the shadows will always be there, but for now, they’ve given me something I didn’t think I could have: a second chance.
As we walk back, the city waking around us, I realize the shadows were right. Choices are the hinges of destiny, and in this moment, I choose to forgive, move forward, and let the past be a story that shapes me but does not define me.
The sun rises, casting long shadows stretching before us, and for the first time in a long while, I feel a glimmer of hope.
I think we’re always on the edge of something, and as we step into the light, I know that whatever comes next, I’m ready to face it.
Ani Eldritch 2024
