Chapter 4

The light came on. Through the crack at the bottom of the door, I saw a thin strip of warm yellow light casting onto the back of my hand.

From inside came Leo’s laughter, the cartoon characters chatting, Richard saying, "Hand Dad the remote," and my mother saying, "Leo, turn off the TV, it’s time for your bath."

I lay outside the door.

The autumn night wind swept through the hallway, blowing over me.

I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and goosebumps broke out across my arms.

It wasn't cold. Or maybe I was past the point of cold, unable to feel it anymore.

The blood on my forehead kept flowing, running down my cheek and into my ear, sticky and warm.

I lifted my hand to wipe it, but my arm fell back down halfway, as if the bones had been removed.

I stared at the hallway ceiling.

A fluorescent light bulb hummed softly. A moth rested on it, its shadow cast on the floor, completely still.

The lights inside the apartment went out.

Leo said, "Goodnight, Mom." My mother said, "Make sure you cover yourself up, Leo." Richard said, "Go to sleep early, you have school tomorrow."

Silence fell.

Occasionally, there was the sound of someone tossing in bed, a creak of the mattress, and then silence again.

The pipes gurgled as water ran down from the upper floors. Someone next door was snoring in a rhythmic cadence.

I lay outside the door, watching the moth.

It remained on the bulb, its wings folded, gray and dusty, completely unnoticed.

Just like me.

Inconsequential in life, unnoticed in death.

I didn't know how much time had passed. It could have been midnight, or close to dawn.

The hallway light went out. It was motion-activated, shutting off when no one walked by.

Everything turned pitch black. Even the sliver of light under the door was gone.

I lay in the dark.

My chest didn't hurt as much anymore.

It wasn't getting better; it had just gone numb.

My breathing was still there, but it was shallow and faint, like a thin thread about to snap.

I suddenly remembered something.

Last winter, my mother took me to the hospital for a check-up.

The doctor said my condition couldn't be ignored anymore, and that surgery should be done as soon as possible.

My mother said we had to wait. We had just bought a new apartment, and money was tight.

The doctor warned that if we kept waiting, the next attack could be my last.

My mother nodded and said she understood.

After leaving the hospital, she bought me a glazed donut.

It was covered in sugar, sweet and slightly tart.

She bought one for herself too. We stood at the hospital entrance, eating. Suddenly she smiled and said, "Starry, you loved these when you were little. You’d cry if I didn't buy you one."

I said, "Mom, you still remember."

She said, "Of course I do. You're my baby girl."

That was the last time she called me Starry.

When dawn broke, I was awakened by the sound of footsteps.

Not human footsteps.

It was the rustling of a broom sweeping the floor, rustle, rustle, coming from the end of the hallway.

It was Maria, the building cleaner.

Seeing me, her broom stopped.

"Oh my, why is this child lying here?"

She knelt down and touched the back of my hand to my cheek.

"She’s ice cold."

Her voice changed.

She patted my face, felt my hand, and then stood up, banging on the door.

"Is anyone home?! Your child is lying out here! Come out, quick!"