by César Puch
It was a blur.
Nothing ever was clear. Only the silhouette was real to her. It had been there when they brought her home, when they lay her down on the bed like a china doll. She’d thought it was odd, just standing there on top of the electricity post. She couldn’t tell for sure if it was a man, but it was there, every night.
She dreaded it at first. She wanted to shriek for its presence, but how could she? She would never utter a word again, of that she was sure. She could hear fine. A bad accident it had been. Maybe she should have died.
Maybe it was here to collect her.
As the time passed though, the figure never moved. Not once during all those years, one big blur for her, just a single day looping again and again. The lifting, the cleaning, the changing of the sheets. The feeding.
And it, perched on top of the post.
Eventually, her fear retreated. She needed it –him– up there. Her world was so small.
He was a big piece.
The last time she awoke, it wasn’t there anymore. She struggled to see better. So much rain outside. But it was gone, she was certain. .
And then the pain came, and she welcomed it, for she’d felt so little for so long, but it then overwhelmed her and she screamed and her screams pierced her mind, though were hardly heard in the house.
[César Puch lives in Lima, Peru where he studied multimedia development. He is currently working as art editor and layout designer for Surreal Magazine. He has also published a couple of horror stories under a pen name and has one featuring in the upcoming Shadow Regions anthology.]