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| Photo from Shaun of the Dead (2004), dir. Edgar Wright |
Disclaimer: This literary piece contains depictions of violence and mentions of death that some may find disturbing. Reader's discretion is advised.
There is a woman at the end of my street that I like avoiding.
We moved here only a few months ago, and I have turned our uncrossing paths into some sort of game. It’s kind of sick, I know, that I have turned this woman into a source of amusement. But there is only so much to do in this boring little town before you start to get bored, thus is born the new gameshow everyone (no one) has been waiting for: “Avoid That Crazy Lady!”
I win this game by following her pattern, see; I have studied her with Sherlockian levels of scrutiny. On the way home from school, at exactly 6 in the evening, when the sun has started to set over the deserted streets of Estanislao Avenue, she appears. She moves like a cryptid, I have deducted: head first, gangly limbs following afterward. At each step, I hear clicking even when she is far away, and I do not know if the sound is her bones clacking against one another or if it is simply her tongue popping against the roof of her gaping mouth.
But perhaps the most distinguishable feature of the woman at the end of the street—the one that almost always guarantees my victory—is her incessant wailing. Like a banshee on helium her screams are high-pitched, seemingly on a completely different frequency; they echo on into the night like a demented alarm clock, piercing through my eardrums and racking my body with goosebumps each time.
The other day, she almost caught me.
Five steps down the street, I could hear screaming from afar and took that as my signal to switch lanes. Like always, she did the same. After walking past the green house—my second marker—I switched again, but at that time, unlike all the others, she followed me. I found myself moving back and forth from the left lane to the right, only to look up and see her hot on my tail. Her cries grew faster and faster, and I could feel my heart pounding in the back of my throat. I remembered thinking that I was going to die. I could see her hands—a pale white color, almost translucent underneath the setting sun—reaching out toward me.
Then I realized, in all my stupid confusion, that my house was right next to me; I ran as fast as I could to the door with my hand outstretched for the rusting knob, throwing myself in and locking it behind me without a second thought. I celebrated by eating cereal and listening to my parents fight from the other room for what I assumed was the third time that night.
They have always been like this, for as long as I can remember; I don’t think there has ever been a time when I’ve seen them happy. Their arguments have, over the years, turned into background noise to me—something I’ve learned to tune out. But today, a new line is crossed: suddenly, today, I am involved in the mess. And in the wreckage of what our family has become, I find myself stumbling out of our house with a red, stinging cheek and tears blurring my vision. I hear my mother calling out for me to come home and my father begging for forgiveness but I pay them no mind.
I barely make it past Abello when I see her. Our paths no longer start with her at the end; this time, she is right in front of me, breath hot on my face.
I start crying—not because of fear, but because I realize at that moment just how tired I am. I realize that if this woman were to kill me, I would be fine with it. I realize that dying means no more arguing, no more screaming. No more pain. I start crying even harder. I can see from my peripheral vision that she is raising her arms up as if poised to kill, and I close my eyes.
Suddenly, without warning, she pulls me in for a hug. And I don’t know why but that makes me cry even more.
Her name is Esther, she tells me, and she lives in the green house I walk past every day. I ask her why she tried to grab me the other day and she tells me it’s because I looked sad—she thought I needed a hug. She tells me I remind her of her daughter because we used to go to the same school.
“Where does she go now?” I ask her. She hands me a tissue so I can blow my nose. Her hands don’t look as translucent now, just pale, like a china doll.
Esther shakes her head. “Heaven now, dear.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say.
“It’s okay if you don’t know what to say. I still haven’t processed it... why do you think I’ve been crying so much these past few weeks? No one asked me how I was doing—they couldn’t even look me in the eye!” She shook her head, but there was a smile tugging at her lips as if she found the whole thing to be ridiculous. I felt a twinge of guilt in my chest.
When we get back to my house, I could still hear yelling. I wince, instinctively reaching to cover my ears. Esther takes hold of my hands and pulls me towards her home. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t have to for me to know what this means. ‘Stay with me.’
I smile at her. I know she understands the heavy feeling in my chest—perhaps more than I myself understand it. I squeeze her hand and without having to say it, I say ‘okay.’
From all the things I could’ve expected from the banshee at the end of Estanislao Street, the last thing I expected was to find a friend.
