Killing Shadows by Wen Wen Yang

“I’m in,” Dowsha says as she tucks a loose lock behind her ear. The others stare at her curiously. “Well that’s a first,” says the host, his eyes questioning.

“It’s about time!” One of the females squeals.

Dowsha lifts a corner of her lips in her half-smile. “Yes, it is.”

“Crud!” The host curses as he glancing at his clock. “Dowsha was supposed to be home half an hour ago.”

Dowsha makes a face, her eyes downcast. “Yes, I should be leaving.”

“I’ll drive you home.” The host proclaims more than offers. Reluctantly, Dowsha nods as she leaves her seat on the bed. The host follows, twirling his keys on his fingers. They get into his car and he drives silently down the streets. In moments, they are at her home. He doesn’t see the illusion, the manipulated light.

“Thank you,” She says as she steps out of the car.

“Do you want me to go in with you? I can explain,” he asks as he eyes the house.

Dowsha shakes her head as she makes a shadowy figure open the door and wave to them.

“See you tomorrow then,” he says smiling.

“Yes, tomorrow,” she repeats as she turns away and walks into the illusion. He drives away, none the wiser. A moment passes before the illusion collapses and reality shines through. Dowsha steps into the forest behind the image and fades into the shadows.

“Oh no,” a female snorts as her hand grabs the false sleeping bag. “You are not sleeping in the corner.” She tugs it into the middle of the room and lays it between the bed and her sleeping bag. She feels the fabric. The illusion holds true. It feels like cotton encased in plastic with a fleece lining.

“Fine,” Dowsha makes a face and plops down on the illusion. The others continue conversing. Hours pass. The clock chimes the witching hour. Dowsha stares uneasily at it, wondering if she will have enough time. The shadow mask does not hide her fearful dark eyes.

“When is your bedtime anyway?” The host asks as he leans over his bedside. Dowsha shrugs and looks into his eyes. The shadows behind them tug his eyelids lower. The darkness under his covers quickly becomes warmer, gathering energy from nearby objects. He reluctantly yawns.

“Damn, okay everyone to bed.” He says sleepily as he falls back onto his pillows.

One of his friends jumps onto his bed. “No, no, no, get your own bed, damn it.” The host orders as he pushes the jester off his bed. The jester lands heavily onto the floor. Dowsha smirks and lies down on the false sleeping bag.

“Need company Dowsha?” The fallen friend asks as he rubs his bruised knees.

“No, the shadows are enough.” She says coyly. They share an uneasy silence.

“Yea, she’s a freak.” He retorts and crawls over her legs to his bedding.

“Don’t say that,” the host shouts as he throws a pillow at his friend. He finds himself choking on the pillow in the next moment. As he pulls it away, he faces the rest of the males, poised with pillows, ready for war.

“Alright guys, come on, I need my beauty sleep.” A female says as she pulls her comforter over her face. The jester politely hops onto her bed before retreating to his. She howls but does not retaliate, another casualty. The war is avoided.

The light retreats. Shadows envelop the room and begin their reign. The room breathes in unison, steady and silent. Their conscious minds become empty. Their inner fears and desires roam the dark caverns of their frontal lopes. They are asleep.

Dowsha pulls the shadows over the others’ eyes to last just long enough. The shadows curl up like patient black kittens on each eyelid. No one stirs.

Stepping over the softly snoring gathering, she finally begins her task. She reaches the door and pushes it ajar. The corridor is bruise-colored, empty, and soulless. Night’s air is sharp, piercing through her. She smiles and steps into it, greeting her invisible accomplice. When those with shape had abandoned her, Night was the constant, loyal familiar.

She cannot remember if she was like one of those on the floor, sleeping in their ignorant bliss. All she knows is faint memories of pain, helplessness and fear. Her cheeks can almost remember how hot tears felt, running down and circling her chin. But times like those are gone. Now, she is nothing like those on the floor, susceptible to the horrors of the universe and stood idly by as their comrades fall into the pits of despair and agony. No, she is different. She fights back.

Turning back to close the door, she stops to admire the large hunting rifle on the wall. A great tree suffered and died to make its handle, while metal was ripped from its mother to be melted and shaped into a crude barrel. Despite its image, it had no guarantee of completing its task. It was supposed to kill, to defend its owner. It failed; it did not protect this victim. The offenders committed their hideous deeds. No punishment was dealt. For reasons like this, the higher powers had created her and, now, called upon her.

She closes the door soundly and continues. Her eyes adjust immediately to the darkness as they become scarlet slits. She continues to the room at the end of the hall as the rest of her illusion falls away. Thick, midnight colored nails match her scaly, ebony hide. Leathery wings shatter the last pieces of the deceptive shell as they spread out cautiously. They brush the ceiling.

She reaches the door of the damned one. With a breath, she meets with the shadows under the door and enters the dark room. The damned one’s breathing is slow, resting in peaceful, vulnerable slumber. This one has caused so much pain, so much suffering. It is beyond the amount any sane person can tolerate, beyond the point I can tolerate. I must end this cycle. I must kill.

She steps closer. A plank creaks. The damned one awakens and sits up, his breathing quick. There will be no punishment for my deed. She watches the damned one’s outline turn. Yet, she ponders the events that had to occur for this one to be created. Uncountable coincidences and conscious effort upon generations of lives lead up to the creation of this creature that disregards it all and decides to carve his own path by destroying the lives of others. This is a waste of energy, air, and soul.

Her form melts into the shadows, like water meeting its likeness, fitting perfectly, seamlessly. She stretches out the shadows, an extension of her powerful form. One catches his throat. The others find his arms and legs and return him to his bed. He struggles violently, in vain. His pulse races under her darkness. A shadow covers his mouth, absorbing his attempts to scream. It escapes as a groan, unimportant to the outside listener. She regains her solid form and takes a seat beside him. His body becomes rigid, fiery. I suppose I seem sinister. She leans in close against his ear. “Be all your sins remembered.” He recognizes her voice and begins fighting again. He thinks he can fight me… Her lips turn up in a weak smirk. She looms over him. Her wings spread to its peak, creating a mighty darkness over them.

She faces him now. She sees his deeds. Is this how he felt when he controlled his victim? Did he feel this rush of power? Am I any better than him, if I should find enjoyment in his demise? He did not kill while I must. Not committing murder does not mean he did no harm. It might have strengthened the victim. It might have destroyed the victim’s true potential. She frowns, realizing her deed may be worst than his. No, it isn’t. He acted on his own motives. These motives may have reasons that could be justified. Perhaps he learned from a cycle of inflicting pain on another. There are no excuses. Everyone hurts. They deal with it in their own ways. He chose the wrong path.

Her blood red slits open and send the shadows into his eyes. He cannot look away. Eyes are windows to the soul, some say. No, they are limited doorways; a soul can leave, but not return. His soul is burning in its fiery rage, smothering its once glorious potential. He killed his potential when he began to hurt another for pleasure. I am merely cleaning up his mess. The shadows pull at his soul. It clings to the body. I am not better. I am better; I right the wrong he creates. The damage is already done. No, it is not, no sin forgotten, no deed unpunished: that is what I do.

The soul gives in. The shadows take it. She takes it.

She blinks. A lifeless shell stares up at her. She presses her hand against the open eyes. I could close them forever, let decay take the body. She decides otherwise. The shadows flood into the empty vessel, replacing the soul. She pulls away roughly when it is done. The eyes close. The steady breathing resumes. The shadows mimic life, but without their past and future evils.

There is movement in another room. The shadows fall away as their time is done. He sways in his sleepiness as he makes his way to the door. A rough hand brushes off the last of the shadow fragments. He opens the door silently as he has learned to do.

She steps away and retreats to the door. She opens it hurriedly, realizing she is late.

The eyes are awake now. A learned hypersensitive response to danger ignites in its mind. He reaches for the closest weapon. He takes aim.

Her wings brush heavily against the wall. She curses under her breath and tries to return to the room. My illusion should return; I should leave as quietly as possible. Perhaps I will claim my nonexistent parents received a job transfer. She plots as she tries to keep her mind off the deed. It is my purpose. It is complete. That is all.

Bam! The host’s door opens, slamming against the wall behind it. She steps back, startled. A light flickers on. She faces the hunting rifle. The host holds it close to his eye, aiming.

“What are you?”

She curses under her breath. The other guests begin awakening dozily, being weaker to her shadows and their sleepiness. She commands the shadows behind his eyes to cloud over. They weakly obey, cast back by the light. He holds the rifle still, though he is blind. Her illusion shell returns. He can see again. His eyebrows cross in confusion. Dowsha raises her hands defensively, mocking weakness. “What are you doing?” She asks softly in the voice he knows as a friend. He does not lower the gun. “What are you?” He has learned not to be the fool. The grunts sound behind him as they see the light flooding into their comforting darkness.

“No good deed…” She mutters softly. Her mortal form charges at him. He fires. The illusion breaks like the muted shattering of glass on stone. A silent shadow expands from beneath the shell casing and stretches outward. She melts into the shadows of the night while the bullet disappears into her darkness as she slips away. He stares blankly forward into the empty air, barely comprehending his surroundings.

The shadows whisper softly as they seep into his ear, “As long as there is light, there will be shadows, and I will be there.” The darkness covers his memories of Dowsha, as well as the recollections of anyone else she had contact with. Her possessions in his room disappear, returning to the world of shadow. She takes her form in the alleyway behind his house and watches his silhouette walk sleepily back to his room. Sleepwalking, his friends will explain and cast the thought away. He will never know any more than that.

Turning away, she spreads her wings and takes to the air. A bullet rolls silently along the contours of her palm. A clenched fist stops it. She stares at the marred flesh of the bullet and whispers, “No deed goes unpunished.” The shadows take her away from this world and she reenters her own, until she is called upon again. Until then, she will heal from the lives and friendships lost that she alone remembers.

The End