By Mackenzie Kae

She is hiding in the closet. She’s been hiding in the closet for a long time. The muscles that once cramped in twisted agony, the pelvic bone that had throbbed in stillness, the spine that screamed to be straightened – she no longer feels any of it.

The mantra repeats in her head. It will be okay. It will be okay. She is frightened, yes, but she knows how to do this. How to hide.

Her momma taught her. Her granny taught her momma. So on, so forth. They were contortionists, teaching their daughters how to fold their bodies into small spaces. She will probably teach her daughter the same one day.

She won’t teach her daughter the other thing. She is angry her mother taught her that – to open her mouth when it was best left shut.

Quiet now. She finally hears him. He slams into the small kitchen, slams the screen door off its hinges. She wants to cuss about it but she knows better. She needs to keep hiding.

He stomps through the dining room. Something crashes and shatters on the floor. She wonders if he hit it on purpose with his hands, or by accident swinging the butt of the shotgun.

Quieter now. He is in the hall. She only has a few seconds left. She hears him pause outside of the bedroom door. She left it cracked. Shut would have been obvious. Open would have been obvious, too. Cracked is more natural – maybe someone peeked in here, maybe a cat pawed it open, maybe the creaky old house settled. 

He knows, though. He always knows. Sometimes when she’s angry and opens her mouth, like her mother taught her, she calls him stupid. Well, no, she’s never said it. He’s the one who says she insinuates it. It must be true that she does, then. But she’s never said it. She’s never even thought it.

She’s hidden from him enough to know how smart he is.

Please, god, be quiet now. He’s here.

She holds her breath. Her throat grows a tumor. Good. That will help her stay quiet. Soon he will start. He will slur out his taunts. He will let her hear the safety being turned off. He will open the closet door, calmly. Then he will kiss her temple with the barrel. 

It will be okay. Remember? It will be okay. He never pulls the trigger.

But – he doesn’t open the door. He collapses in front of it. It shakes in its frame. She realizes she can see him. How? There’s a hole here. When did that hole get here?

He’s crying now. No, he’s wailing. He really should be quiet – because when did that hole get here?

 When did momma get here? Contorted against the opposite wall. She really is good. But granny’s better, and she’s here, too. When? When did they get here?

She feels more terrified than she ever has. No. No, wait. She no longer feels anything.

She has been hiding in the closet for a long time. 

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Mackenzie Kae is a writer living in Kentucky. She enjoys caring for rambunctious beings and floating through fantasies. Her work has appeared in Corvus Review, Last Leaves Magazine, Subliminal Surgery, and Molecule.