[Note for people who haven’t been paying attention: I am not “officially” doing NaNoWriMo (though if this goes well I may sign up late) but, much like I did last year with Wasteland Diaries, I am going to spend the month of November writing a long-form piece of fiction a chapter at a time. I’m aiming for 1800-2000 words per day, to be published on this ‘ere blog a chapter at a time. Let’s get started.]

I turned my head to the side to glance at the dull green glow of my clock radio, that faithful old gizmo that didn’t really work properly any more but which I’d always kept by the side of my bed for as long as I could remember. At least the clock part still worked, even if the radio didn’t.

Half-past two in the morning. It was looking like another sleepless night.

It was the silence that did it. On nights like this, it just seemed oppressive, like it was palpable. The darkness seemed to close around my head, crushing me, suffocating me. Most of the time when this happened, I ended up getting up and doing something — anything — to try and occupy myself until the sun came up, at which point I’d start another day as if nothing happened. No-one ever commented on the obvious bags under my eyes. It wasn’t that they didn’t care; it’s that people had long since learned to tread carefully around me. I hadn’t taught them that. In many ways, I would have preferred it somewhat if people had taken a little more interest in my mental wellbeing, but I guess I’d always been somewhat aloof and standoffish, and my protestations that I could handle things by myself had led people to think that I was happier by myself.

I wasn’t.

I groaned to myself and sat up on the side of the bed. The darkness continued to swirl around me, so I reached up and flicked on the light, wincing at the sudden brightness invading the room and chasing the shadows away.

I was so tired. I felt like I hadn’t slept properly for… how long? I’d lost count. Eventually I usually did succumb to exhaustion after a day or two of tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling, but it did worry me sometimes. I’d considered going to the doctor about it, but they’d only want to talk about it all and give me medicine. As much as it would probably help, I really didn’t want to become dependent on medicine to get through activities like sleeping — things that, let’s face it, normal people have absolutely no problems with.

My situation was far from normal, though. How many other 18 year olds had a huge house like this to themselves? Not many, I’d imagine. And those that did probably found themselves in possession of it in a similar manner to how I did. That didn’t really make me feel any better.

The nightmares about that terrible evening had long since stopped and been replaced with the sort of numb feeling I was experiencing, but I still found myself reminiscing in a morbid sort of way sometimes. I found myself pondering if I could have done anything differently, but of course I couldn’t. I was far away from being able to do anything, hearing the horrible details from an anonymous voice on the other end of the phone, completely helpless to do anything. I screamed and raged and cried solidly for the rest of the night, but it wouldn’t help. There was nothing to do. They were gone — my mother, father and sister, all taken from me in one fell swoop. So senseless. So frustrating. Fate has no remorse.

I rubbed my face and stood up. It wouldn’t do to dwell on those past events right now. What I needed to do was occupy my mind. Perhaps I could read a book or watch some terrible early-morning TV. My first priority was to get a drink for my dry throat, however. I always seemed to dehydrate when I was anxious, and tonight was no exception. My throat felt like it was lined with cut glass. It hurt to swallow.

The stairs made those familiar creaks as I walked down them. The first one would make a sort of “crunch” noise, the second would “click”, the third would “groan”. There wasn’t anything wrong with them, they were just noisy stairs. I’d been hearing these noises ever since I’d been born, and I’d always found them strangely comforting. I’d always been able to tell how close someone was to the top floor simply by the sounds of the stairs, and over time I’d even learned to recognise the different sounds different people made on them.

Now, of course, there was only me to make a sound on them. I tried to vary my pattern every so often, but more often than not it was just the usual trudge, trudge, trudge; crunch, click, groan.

I flicked on the light in the kitchen and pulled out a glass from the cupboard above the microwave. It clinked loudly as I knocked it against another one. Sounds always seemed louder in the middle of the night. A long time ago, I had thought this was just because of trying to avoid being noticed by people who were asleep; but even now, everything always seems amplified when I’m doing it at the “wrong” time. The world should be asleep now, I found myself thinking. Why aren’t I?

I filled up the glass with some water from the tap and gulped the whole thing down straight away, immediately refilling it. I took just a sip this time. The tap water wasn’t particularly pleasant, but it helped soothe my dry throat somewhat. I swalllowed deeply, and after a few more mouthfuls of water, it ceased to hurt when I did so.

How was I going to while away the night this time? The green glow of the clock on the oven indicated that a quarter of an hour had passed since I’d decided to forgo sleep, and I wasn’t any closer to making a decision on how I was going to pass the time. My brain felt woolly and numb and my eyelids felt heavy, but I knew that if I lay down I wouldn’t be able to drift off. It would be pointless. I might as well do something. Anything.

Perhaps a book, I thought. And I know just where to find one.

I rinsed out the now-empty glass and put it upside-down on the draining board, then switched off the light in the kitchen and walked back upstairs. Trudge, trudge, trudge; groan, click, crunch. I didn’t have the energy to do anything different.

My room was at the far end of the upstairs hallway. On the right was the door to what was once my parents’ bedroom; on the left, the bathroom and my sister’s former bedroom. I hadn’t done anything with these rooms out of a combination of respect and laziness. Both were still made up as they were on that day, as if they were expecting their residents to just come home at any time. All of the doors were closed, which tended to mean they smelled a bit musty on the few occasions when I went in there, but I preferred it that way. I could look in on them, frozen in time as they were, and then simply close them off when I wanted to. Out of sight, out of mind. It may sound callous, but I preferred it that way.

Tonight, I decided I would look in on my sister’s room. She had always had some well-stocked bookshelves, as she was an avid reader. I hadn’t developed that trait until long after she was gone, but now I regularly raided her collection. I often found myself wishing that she was still here just so I could talk about the books I’d read with her — she loved to talk — but there was no helping it. Sometimes I just sat on her bed and talked to her anyway, just imagining she was there, hanging on her big brother’s words. She was a good girl. I missed her more than my parents. I felt guilty every time I thought that to myself, but it was true. We’d spent much of our lives as bitter rivals who didn’t really get along with one another, but I regretted that now. Now, I wanted nothing more than to give her what she had wanted all along — to be treated as an equal, as a peer, not as the annoying younger sister I’d always regarded her as.

My hand hesitated over the doorknob to her room for some reason. Something felt… strange. There was a curious feeling of tension in the air. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was, but it was there the moment I put my hand near her door. I removed it and it went away; I put it back, and there it was again. What was that?

Shaking it off as just my exhausted mind playing tricks on me, I steeled myself and grasped the doorknob again. I turned it to the side quietly and gently — those old night-time habits are hard to break — and pushed open the door, which made a slight “squeak” as it opened for what was probably the first time in several weeks.

Inside, it was dark, but I knew my way around well enough to not need the light. I’d done this several times in the past — just walked in, picked a random book in the dark, then decided to read it. I found it quite fun — it made me try some things that I might not have otherwise given a chance, and I found myself enjoying some surprising titles. My sister enjoyed everything from trashy pulp romances to epic, multi-part fantasy sagas, so there was always something new for me to try — and somehow, I hadn’t pulled out the same book twice yet.

Tonight, I decided to pick one from the top shelf at the far end of the room, near the window. The bright moonlight was peeking in through the small gap I’d left in the curtains — I kept them shut most of the time — and casting a pool of light on the floor. I walked towards the far shelves, using the light from the window as my guide, and reached up to take a book. Hmm. Felt like a hardback. Glossy cover, slightly oversized format. I wonder what it could be. I pulled it out from the shelf and turned to leave.

The strange feeling of tension at the back of my mind was still irking me, and it felt like it had been getting stronger ever since I’d walked into the room. What was it? I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something felt… wrong. Something felt weird. This wasn’t right. Why wasn’t it right? Was I cracking up? Was the stress of being alone finally taking its toll on my mind?

Clasping the book to my chest, I started to feel a growing sense of inexplicable, inescapable panic. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but that gnawing feeling of wrongness was starting to overtake me. I could feel my senses sharpening as my brain was clearly going into “fight or flight” mode. My pulse quickened, and cold sweat dripped down my back. What was the matter here? It was just me, getting a book from my sister’s room, the same as I’ve done many times in the past. Why was this freaking me out so much? Why was–

“Hey, what are you doing…?” came a bleary voice from the other side of the room, shattering the silence. I froze on the spot. My heart felt like it had stopped. “What time is i–”

Click.

The room suddenly filled with the harsh but warm glow of artificial light, tinted slightly by the colourful shade on the ceiling. I stood there, utterly paralysed in terror, unable to believe my eyes, for there, sitting up in bed, staring at me wide-eyed and obviously feeling something similar to the emotions I was currently being wracked by, was my deceased sister.