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Deena hums, keeping her eyes closed, as Sam gently traces her index finger across the slope of Deena’s nose, letting her thumb brush across the bow of her lips. “Hmm,” Deena murmurs against the tips of her fingers, “what are you doing?”
It hardly looks, to Sam at least, like Deena minds. “Nothing,” Sam says, letting her fingers repeat the journey all over again, tracing the features of Deena’s face. It’s a pretty great face. Her favorite, in fact. It would be hard to get sick of studying such a face.
“Tickles,” Deena says, remaining motionless on the mattress, “little bit.”
Deena’s voice is thick, heavy with the same sense of approaching sleep that Sam can see weighing down the rest of her girlfriend’s muscles. Her curls are spilled across the pillow beneath her head, the hem of her black tee pushed up just enough to reveal a sliver of stomach, the smooth skin nearly as tempting as the curve of Deena’s lips, the bridge of her nose, the hollow of her collar bone. It makes Sam’s mouth go dry, makes her heart race, her toes tingle, just looking at her half-asleep girlfriend sprawled out across the bed.
“Sorry,” Sam says but it’s a lie and they both know it. She knows what Deena would do if Sam were to tell her how beautiful she looks right now, knows Deena would laugh and tighten up, would make a joke at one of their expense, would tease her for going all soft and cheesy. Sam wants to keep her like this for just a moment longer, wants to have Deena like this and all to herself. All loose muscles and openness.
“You don’t have to stop,” Deena murmurs, reaching up blindly and looping her fingers around Sam’s wrist, pulling her hand back to the hollow of her throat. Beneath her palm, Sam can feel Deena’s pulse, slow and lazy. Real and reassuring.
Sam knows what her mother would say if she knew what her daughter was doing right now, certain the woman wouldn’t be surprised that this was how Sam was spending the night of freedom afforded to her by her mother leaving the house to spend some time at her new boyfriend’s place. A lack of supervision and she sneaks out of the house, turning into a complete deviant, her headed flooded with lewd thoughts.
Sorry, Mom.
But how was she supposed to pass up the chance to sneak over to Deena’s, to spend the night with her girlfriend rather than in an empty, quiet house all by herself.
Even now, even here, the idea of being alone all night sends a shiver down her spine.
Sam gently moves her thumb back and forth across the arch of Deena’s throat, feeling the vibrations of Deena’s response beneath her skin. “You’re falling asleep,” Sam accuses playfully. “It’s early.”
“ You’re putting me to sleep,” Deena mumbles in response without opening her eyes or doing anything to disprove Sam’s accusation.
“I thought you didn’t want me to stop.” Sam raises her eyebrows even though Deena’s eyes are still very much closed.
Deena humphs out a breath, lifting her chin slightly as Sam’s fingers move to trace her jawline, leaving goosebumps behind. Maybe it’s a good thing that it’s barely ten o’clock on a Saturday night. Sam might need a few more hours to devote herself to studying every inch of Deena’s body: the creases of her elbows, the jut of her hip bones, the arch of her heels. She wants to commit her to memory, only to relearn her again the next chance she gets.
“It’s kinda nice,” Sam says softly, fingers tip-toeing across Deena’s clavicle. “Normally we have to hurry. Everything is always so rushed and frantic.”
Not that she minds, not really. There’s something to be said about that too: the heat, the desperate need, the way the press of Deena’s hands and lips and teeth feel like fire against her skin.
“You should sneak out more often then,” Deena replies. “Call it a sleepover.”
Sam smiles, fingers brushing the sensitive skin behind Deena’s ear, not missing the way the breath seems to catch in Deena’s chest. “No way,” she teases. “You hog the covers.”
Finally, Deena cracks one eye open. “I’ll keep you warm,” she promises.
Sam is still laughing, flush and fluttery with love and anticipation, when the room suddenly plunges into darkness. She’d be embarrassed by the gasp that slips out, by how quickly her body tenses up, if she could focus on anything but the sudden, consuming blackness around her.
“Ugh, shit,” Deena mumbles, the bed creaking as she shifts. “Not again.”
“Again?” Sam swallows, her hand settling on Deena’s shoulder to ground herself, to remind her that she’s not here alone.
Deena’s exhale of annoyance might also double as a laugh. “It’s some kind of…I don’t know, construction project or something. A few blocks over.” Sam can feel the shrug of her shoulder beneath her hand. “They keep knocking down wires or like drilling into shit, I have no idea.”
Sam glances around but Deena’s room looks entirely unfamiliar now, no longer the comforting space full of clutter and all things so perfectly Deena that has always felt a little bit like coming home. The corners are nothing but shadow and, thanks to the outage, there aren’t even any street lights to shed light through the window. “Should we…do something?”
“Sure. You want to go complain to the construction crew?” Deena teases. “It’s fine. They’ll figure it out in a few hours.” She reaches for Sam’s hand, settling her thumb against the pulse on her wrist but Sam barely feels her touch.
You knew this could happen but you wanted me to come over anyway? But Sam knows her frustration is entirely misplaced and unfair. Why would Deena think, even for a moment, to warn her about something like this.
After all, it’s not like she’s mentioned to Deena that she keeps her bedside lamp on all night while she sleeps. That, even with that, she has to keep the hallway light on too.
Instead, Sam swallows, trying to steady the pounding in her heart. “Do you…should we get flashlights?”
The bed creaks again as Deena sits up, Sam’s hand falling from her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” Sam says quickly. “I just think…I mean sitting here in the dark is weird…right? We should have…something.”
“Um, okay,” Deena says, the mattress dipping and shifting as she crawls across it, slipping out of bed. “I think Josh has some in the basement. I’ll be right back.”
Sam stands even though she can barely make out Deena’s figure in the darkness. “I can-”
“It’ll take five seconds,” Deena says, the bedroom door opening in the darkness. “Seriously. Be right back.”
She’s gone before Sam can fully get to her feet and she hovers there for a moment, uncertain. She could follow Deena into the darkness, catch up with her relatively quickly. But just as Deena’s room suddenly feels unfamiliar and unpredictable, the rest of the house does too, and the idea of stepping foot into the dark hallway and taking a single step forward is too much to bear.
Swallowing, Sam sits back down on the bed, willing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The shadows seem to breathe, the darkness a living thing, solid and warm and inching closer and closer. She curls her toes into the carpeted floor, trying to ground herself, but the sudden whisper of movement only reminds her of how easily it would be for a hand to snake out from beneath the bed and grasp her ankle, pulling her down and down and down until she disappears forever.
She knows how easily it can happen. How swiftly.
Quickly, Sam pulls her feet up, backing into the corner and drawing her knees to her chest. The bed smells like Deena, the sheets still warm from her presence only moments before, tickling her nose and the back of her mind the same way the memories of her did when Sam was alone, trapped in the darkness. When the grip around her throat was so tight she couldn’t breathe enough to scream, when she couldn’t control her body, her thoughts, her mind, the darkness there all around her and whispering, breathing, living.
Sam lets her eyes scan the room, blood rushing in her ears. Every corner moves, ready to give birth to that figure hiding the dark. The rattle of the wind against the glass of Deena’s window sounds like her name, hoarse and guttural, a promise that that thing in the dark hasn’t forgotten who she is.
She tries to hum to herself, the way she used to do when she was little, when her parents were fighting downstairs or when she was restless in the middle of the night, woken by a nightmare, unaware of just how terrifying life could really be. All she can remember now is that song Deena loves, the one by the Pixies that usually makes Sam smile because it reminds her of the sound of the tape deck humming as it rewinds, of Deena’s soft hands, of her even softer lips. It works for only about two seconds, until she remembers that one line - must be the devil between us- which suddenly seems far too ominous for her current situation.
She’s really going to have to ask Deena why she loves that song so much.
The wind continues to press against the glass, insistent, fingers eager to lift the pane and slip inside. Sam, she imagines the darkness whispering, hot against the back of her neck, you thought you could get away so easily?
Sam’s head whips around, eyes busy and useless. “It’s fine,” she whispers, just to hear something other than the voice in her mind. “Everything is fine.”
The darkness around her seems to be growing thicker, more solid, and Sam imagines the smell of it as it closes in around her: loamy and wet, sharp and sweet with rot. She closes her eyes, pressing her forehead against her knees, trying to catch her breathing before it gallops away from her but it’s getting harder and harder.
Harder and harder not to remember exactly how it feels to be swallowed up by the darkness. To be stuck there, held down with a fist to her chest, buried alive. She hugs herself tightly to keep from shivering but it’s no use. She’s not alone here, not here in the dark, just like she wasn’t before, when she had all those voices and thoughts in her head, none of them hers, all of them bright and sharp and violent.
She couldn’t escape then. And she can’t escape now. Not these shadows. Not the things hiding in them. Not even if were just to crawl under the covers and pull them tightly around her, the idea of it useless anyway because Sam can’t move, can’t do anything but keep her face hidden away like that might keep everything else at bay.
A hand falls onto her shoulder and Sam screams because she can’t do this again, can’t be swallowed up, can’t lose herself and everything else. Not again. “Don’t!”
“Whoa, hey, sorry.” A beam of light snaps on, illuminating Deena’s surprised features and the far corner of the room, where nothing stands by empty space.
Sam pants, glancing around frantically. The room is barely illuminated in the glow of the flashlight but it’s enough. Enough to press the darkness back. Enough to bring forth all the old familiar things: the mess, the posters tacked to the wall, Sam’s jacket on the back of a chair.
“Hey, what’s…” Deena sits down, putting the flashlight on the bed as she eases herself closer to Sam. “Are you okay? Sam?”
Swallowing, Sam swipes at her cheeks, embarrassed to feel wetness there. She picks up the flashlight, the shivering of the beam giving away her trembling hands. She can breathe again, can think, the darkness opening around her. Retreating once more.
“Sam,” Deena says with slightly more force, carefully settling a hand on Sam’s knee. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“N-no,” Sam manages, finally chancing a look at Deena’s face. “S…sorry.”
This part, too, is familiar. The shame. The embarrassment. The way she’d felt the first time her father had come to see her after everything that happened, doing his good-parent routine, had made same quip about her hair needing a good wash, seemingly disappointed to find her no longer up to par. She’d had no idea how to explain that the idea of putting her face and head under the water had been nearly unbearable. How she’d eventually ease herself back into it by kneeling down outside the tub with her hair flipped under the faucet, puddles of water soaking into her knees by the end of it.
Or the way she feels every morning when her mother comes to get her up for school, clicking off the hallway light with a grunt of dissatisfaction.
Hot, prickling shame. Embarrassment coiling in the pit of her stomach, slippery and oily.
“Sam,” Deena says, tilting her head slightly, trying to catch Sam’s gaze. “What happened? Are you okay?’
Nodding, Sam tightens her hands around the flashlight. She should feel embarrassed. She knows she should. It is embarrassing, not being able to close her eyes without the glow of light behind her lids, without the promise of being able to see every corner of every room.
Not that Deena looks at all convinced. “You can tell me,” she says gently, lifting her hand to brush her fingers against Sam’s cheek. “Okay?”
Sam knows this, understands that if there’s anyone she can tell, it’s this girl, this person she loves so dearly. Just the brush of her fingers makes Sam uncoil, just a little bit. “It’s the dark,” she whispers finally, unable to meet Deena’s eyes as she says the words. “I can’t…I don’t…”
Deena doesn’t say anything and Sam can’t bring herself to look at her to see what she could possibly be thinking. She isn’t sure she wants to know. How else is someone going to react upon learning that a seventeen-year-old is afraid of the dark.
“Hey, I have an idea, okay?” Deena says, sliding backward off the bed and holding out her hand. “Come on.”
Sam takes it, lacing their fingers together, feeling the steady pulsing of Deena’s heart. The flashlight beam is slightly steadier now as it points their way, downstairs and toward the kitchen, where Deena starts yanking open cabinets and drawers, an expression of concentration on her face.
“What are-”
“Aha,” Deena interjects, glancing over her shoulder to smile at Sam. “I knew we had these somewhere.”
She deposits a half dozen candles on the dining room table, some of them already half-burned down or with blackened wicks, the others perfectly unused if a little dusty. Sam smiles slightly as she understands Deena’s point. “You don’t-”
But Deena ignores her, striking a match on the side of a pack that bears one of the name of one of Shadyside’s many bars. Slowly, she lights the candles one by one until the kitchen is full of a flickering glow, warm and inviting.
Deena looks up, her face dancing with the flames of the candles. “Better?”
Sam swallows, nodding slowly. “Better.”
Smiling, Deena leans forward, pressing her lips to Sam’s forehead. She tucks her hair behind her ear, letting her fingers linger. “I’m sorry I left,” she whispers. “It was more than five seconds.”
“It’s not your fault,” Sam says, turning away like that might somehow conceal her embarrassment. “You didn’t know. And why would you think…I mean I shouldn’t be afraid of the dark for Christ’s sake.”
Deena lifts her eyebrows. “Uh…are you serious right now? If the dark is the only thing you’re afraid of right now, then I’d say you’re actually doing pretty good.” She gently takes Sam’s chin between her fingers, guiding her focus back. “It makes sense.”
Sam presses her teeth to her lip, wanting to press harder and harder until she tastes blood. But she forces herself to relax, to look at Deena instead. “It was awful,” she says softly. “Being…trapped there. In all that darkness.”
Deena swallows, nodding. “I know,” she says. “Or, I mean, I think I have an idea. That’s how it felt, too, to be Sarah Fier.” Deena’s fingers card through her hair and Sam smiles faintly, the gesture easier this time. “I get it, okay?”
“Yeah. I know.” And it’s the truth. Something she’s so selfishly grateful for.
“Keep this,” Deena says, curling Sam’s fingers tighter around the flashlight, letting her own hand linger over hers. “And we have these too. A little mood lighting,” she teases.
Sam rolls her eyes even as she smiles. “How romantic.”
Deena shrugs. “I have my moments.”
She has more than moments, but Sam doesn’t want to further inflate her ego.
Eventually, they head back upstairs, taking a few of the candles with them, setting them around Deena’s room to help further keep the darkness at bay. Deena lays back down in bed and this time Sam goes with her, abandoning her efforts to trace and memorize her girlfriend’s features for the time being. The flashlight rests between them, pointing downward and adding to the flickering warmth created by the candles. Sam rests her head against Deena’s shoulder, closing her eyes as she tucks her face against the crook of Deena’s neck, listening to the steady beating of her heart.
She’s still there, tucked against Deena, when she wakes up in the morning to find the candles burned to nothing and the room flooded with light.