Nightlight
by Silas Reid
Angela tore the nightlight out of the socket three weeks after Maya's death.
It had taken her that long to set foot in the bedroom again. The rumpled sheets were dull with dust, layers of it filling the creases where her daughter's little limbs had shuffled restlessly in sleep. It had taken Maya longer than Angela's maternally sleep-deprived mind would have liked to figure out the whole sleeping issue. The room was too full of shadows, Maya would say, and so Angela had gone out and bought the light.
It had helped, somewhat.
It was a smaller than her fist, oblong and unassuming. When she plugged it into the wall, it lit up blue green like electric sea glass. Angela and Maya had gone looking, unsuccessfully, for sea glass on the rocky beaches where they took one of their mini vacations.
They had gone during the off-season, to save money, and the weather had been cloudy to boot. Far from the bright turquoise waves and soft white sand of desktop background photos, their beach trip had been downright dismal. The skies had churned gray and threatening above frigid black waves as the pair walked delicately along the cool, sharp sand.
Maya had loved it.
Her little feet had kicked up clumps of sand as she raced unabashedly into the surf, Angela running after her. They had returned to the rental house cold and exhausted, Maya looking more blue than pink, mouth stretched in a chattering grin. Angela's heart had been full of love for her strange daughter and her pockets full of broken seashells.
After removing the light, Angela threw it with all the might contained within her limp arm. It bounced indifferently against the glass pane of the window and fell onto the floor without so much as a bounce. Angela joined it on the floor for about three minutes before collecting herself, picking up the offending piece of plastic, and taking it into to kitchen to throw in the trash.
There was, of course, a perfectly serviceable trash bin in Maya's room, but it did not have a lid. The kitchen bin did, and it shut with a satisfying clang. It sounded like closure.
Still, Angela had trouble sleeping that night.
Restless shifting gave way to tossing and turning until she finally hauled herself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen for a glass of water.
A thin slice of familiar, blue-green light glowed from the rim of the trash bin, and Angela stopped in her tracks, rubbing the bleariness out of her eyes. The light did not go away.
She strode to the bin more purposefully than she'd moved in a long time and brought a foot down firmly on the pedal to raise the lid. The lid rose suddenly, as if surprised, and a hollow metallic sound reverberated around the empty kitchen. Angela peered in. In the dimness, she could only just make out the form of the nightlight, laying atop kitchen scraps and empty plastic wrappers, unlit. She eased her foot off the pedal, watching the lid close and indifferently inhaling the faint waft of garbage scent it sent her way.
She went back to bed.
Her shades were drawn, but the moon was full. Even through her closed eyes, the light still seemed to permeate, seeping in through the sheer fabric of the curtains, through the thin skin of her eyelids. Unlike her daughter, Angela had always welcomed the shadows, found too much light hard to sleep by. She had, at one point, considered shelling out the money for blackout curtains before eventually deciding against it. Better to save the money; it could always be put towards Maya's college fund.
That wouldn't be an issue anymore. But Angela scrunched her eyes anyway and buried her head under another blanket.
It had taken her that long to set foot in the bedroom again. The rumpled sheets were dull with dust, layers of it filling the creases where her daughter's little limbs had shuffled restlessly in sleep. It had taken Maya longer than Angela's maternally sleep-deprived mind would have liked to figure out the whole sleeping issue. The room was too full of shadows, Maya would say, and so Angela had gone out and bought the light.
It had helped, somewhat.
It was a smaller than her fist, oblong and unassuming. When she plugged it into the wall, it lit up blue green like electric sea glass. Angela and Maya had gone looking, unsuccessfully, for sea glass on the rocky beaches where they took one of their mini vacations.
They had gone during the off-season, to save money, and the weather had been cloudy to boot. Far from the bright turquoise waves and soft white sand of desktop background photos, their beach trip had been downright dismal. The skies had churned gray and threatening above frigid black waves as the pair walked delicately along the cool, sharp sand.
Maya had loved it.
Her little feet had kicked up clumps of sand as she raced unabashedly into the surf, Angela running after her. They had returned to the rental house cold and exhausted, Maya looking more blue than pink, mouth stretched in a chattering grin. Angela's heart had been full of love for her strange daughter and her pockets full of broken seashells.
After removing the light, Angela threw it with all the might contained within her limp arm. It bounced indifferently against the glass pane of the window and fell onto the floor without so much as a bounce. Angela joined it on the floor for about three minutes before collecting herself, picking up the offending piece of plastic, and taking it into to kitchen to throw in the trash.
There was, of course, a perfectly serviceable trash bin in Maya's room, but it did not have a lid. The kitchen bin did, and it shut with a satisfying clang. It sounded like closure.
Still, Angela had trouble sleeping that night.
Restless shifting gave way to tossing and turning until she finally hauled herself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen for a glass of water.
A thin slice of familiar, blue-green light glowed from the rim of the trash bin, and Angela stopped in her tracks, rubbing the bleariness out of her eyes. The light did not go away.
She strode to the bin more purposefully than she'd moved in a long time and brought a foot down firmly on the pedal to raise the lid. The lid rose suddenly, as if surprised, and a hollow metallic sound reverberated around the empty kitchen. Angela peered in. In the dimness, she could only just make out the form of the nightlight, laying atop kitchen scraps and empty plastic wrappers, unlit. She eased her foot off the pedal, watching the lid close and indifferently inhaling the faint waft of garbage scent it sent her way.
She went back to bed.
Her shades were drawn, but the moon was full. Even through her closed eyes, the light still seemed to permeate, seeping in through the sheer fabric of the curtains, through the thin skin of her eyelids. Unlike her daughter, Angela had always welcomed the shadows, found too much light hard to sleep by. She had, at one point, considered shelling out the money for blackout curtains before eventually deciding against it. Better to save the money; it could always be put towards Maya's college fund.
That wouldn't be an issue anymore. But Angela scrunched her eyes anyway and buried her head under another blanket.
Silas Reid lives and works in a moderately haunted New England town. When not writing, he spends his time hiking with his dog and having one-sided conversations with his cat (the cat does all the talking).