As I lay, panting on the wet asphalt, all I could think about is home. Where was it? Have I ever even had one? Perhaps I can look deep into this murky past of mine and unearth some memory which can prove that one had indeed existed. However, tonight, my weariness does not allow for such a verification. My muscles are weak after having been manipulated to run so far a distance toward this “home” of whose whereabouts I have not the least idea.

The darkness was oppressively thick. It felt as if, for some moments, it were latching onto me with a burdensome weight, compressing me flat on the pavement. It forced a sense of depression and helplessness down into the depths of my innocent body. I yearned for a light.

During the day, there is the sun, which distributes its rays evenly, cordially. Yet when dusk scratches its last effect onto the horizon, this overbearing darkness takes its turn and fills up each innocent crevice with a relentless bleakness; all the sudden, everything in the world becomes so dense and hard to bear.

I could not identify a single light, except a meager glow on the windows of a distant tavern. Yet other than that, I was completely alone, surrounded by the veiled phantasmal horrors which only my imagination could concoct.

My arms throbbed. Evidently, both of which have been scratched thoroughly. Lines of crimson were etched in them in such a way that I have reason to believe they were scraped by human fingernails. Why do I deserve these pains?

Images randomly arose in my head. I saw woman’s face, her blue eyes glittering against a soft bronze skin, with a complexion redolent of a field of wheat. She carried a gentle smile that resembled a strange sort of innocence and vulnerability. And then, abruptly, her face vanished and I perceived a clear bottle half filled with a viscous transparent liqu--

BEEP BEEP

An ear-splitting screech. A blazing light.

BEEP BEEP

I heard the low squeaking noise of an opening door and the subsequent heavy shut. Out of the lighted fog, came man whose countenance I could not distinguish through my seemingly blinded eyes. From a short distance, he surveyed my stubbornly inert body and grunted.

“T’hell ya doin’ down yonder?”, the figure shouted.

What was I to answer? My jumbled mind failed to formulate the words with which I could perhaps justify my lunacy. No words of mine could tame his exasperation; my speech would render no value. Instead of answering I remained in my fetal position, motionlessly staring into the mist which was illuminated by the harsh lights. He advanced closer towards me, his strides suggesting a burgeoning indignancy.

“Stand!”, he yelled.

And again, I was immersed in that strange limbo, yet before I could merely think of answering, he stretched out his arm and poked my shoulder. I shuddered and recoiled back in fear. He was going to take me! Yes!, he was going to take me and put me in the place for the bad. But I did not belong there, I belonged with mother. I belonged at home. And suddenly, as if charged by a thousand volts, my body sprang up and I confronted him. He reeked of whiskey.

“Leave me be!”, I exclaimed.

Quite taken aback, the man took a few steps backward. Silhouetted against the mist, the man’s body was lanky and I could just begin to see the plaid button-down which cleaved to his torso. I detected revulsion in his sallow face.

“Whacko!”, he yelled.

And then, with another grunt, he returned to his truck, slammed the door shut and sped off wildly, burrowing his way into the distant darkness.

At last, I was alone again, enveloped by the midnight. An icy breeze swept over my skin and I began to shiver senselessly. The images showed themselves again.

The sandy hair; those blue eyes; that soft skin only comparable to a field of wheat--those idiosyncratic features which were so queerly ingrained into my mind when I still can not discern to whom they belonged. And then again that peculiar bottle disrupted my view of the woman, its transparent liquid sloshing to and fro. There was something revolting about the bottle--it had this condescending aspect which mere words could not describe. Yet, whatever it was, I was certain that I didn’t fancy it.

Oh yes, home. That was where I was going, right? But where was it, again? I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the house which I so longed to reach. Out of the clouds of my mind, swooped in a picture of a white portico, under which stood a large, mahogany door, ajar. Think harder. Come on--some more context! There is--yes!--there is a white mailbox. Anything else? I tried to picture the rest of the house, however, I could not muster the strength to delve further into these obscure memories. They, at any rate, could barely be trusted.
I began to walk, surveying my surroundings so as to perhaps catch sight of the distinct portico which my mind associated with home. I crossed into a neighborhood which was filled with houses, uniformly white and structurally alike. However, none of which depicted the one that I craved to find. So far as my eyes could reach, I did not notice a mahogany door, nor did recognize the white mailbox that my memories conjured.

It felt as though someone was following me. I stopped and hastily turned around--only to find myself staring into the thick, perpetual darkness, waiting for my premonitions to be confirmed. Nobody showed. A frigid wind lashed me on my back, sending an unrelenting cold into my depths. Something abhorrent was bound to happen. I knew not what it was but by some intuition, I was sure that there was someone or some people near me; I was certain that I was the prey. I could almost hear a faint breathing in front of me. Oddly, it smelled of bleach. Fear pervaded my spirit as I turned and ran towards the end of the terrace. It was one of those fears which was so palpable that I could nearly feel it, mingling with the ominously cool midnight air. I had to get home and be warm; I had to evade this indomitable darkness that concealed these nightly predators. And as I was fleeing from this unknown entity, I had a sudden instinctive epiphany that I was headed in the direction of home.

I ran more breathlessly, anxiously awaiting the emergence of the warm house that would free me. In front of me, I could just hear a wail of police sirens, and in the distance, the darkness was penetrated by blue and red flaring lights. With this sight, I quickened my pace until the sirens’ cries became deafening. I still, yet to a lesser degree, felt some entity behind me, chasing me at the speed of my pace. And as I neared the police cars, I saw the mailbox. And there was the white portico! It was covered with yellow tape, yet through some holes I could see the distinct mahogany door. The men in blue uniforms were frantically running in and out of the house. I approached nearer and nearer until I was on the street standing next to one of the police cars, my eyes fixated on home.

An officer grabbed my shoulder.

“What are you doing here?”

I barely took notice of his words. My attention was too fixed on the cart which was being wheeled out of the house. On it, there was a black body bag and inside, I noticed some sand-colored hair. One of the officers pushing the cart carried an evidence bag. It contained a bottle in which a liquid splashed to and fro.

I escaped the officer’s grip and hastily approached a neighbor, who too was transfixed by the sight.

“What happened here?”, I asked.

It took him a minute to answer.

“Terrible. I heard someone forced bleach down this woman’s throat.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight. Just a horrible way to die. Am I right?”

I nodded. He continued.

“Someone told me they found blood in her fingernails. I mean, she tried to fight back! But scratching can only do so much, you know.”