Shadow of Truth

Written by Leslie Gonzalez
Photographed by Marc Pachon
Model: Allison Eguchi

You wonder about the shadow in the corner of your eye. It’s been following you now since you left his place half an hour ago. You first saw it when you walked through the front gate of his apartment. He hadn’t seen it because he hadn’t walked you out.

           “It’s better this way,” he said.

You didn’t say anything. You were afraid that if you did, he wouldn’t call you. You would have gone home with that same sick, suspending feeling before it turned acidic, like the time you waited for his call a month before.

This time you’re sure he’ll call you because you were told—naked and sweaty and gullible in his arms—you weren’t “vapid” like the other girls. It made you different. It made you special. You smiled, but not really.

Cars drive over broken asphalt when you arrive at the bus stop. Few people are waiting in line, but they ignore your arrival. They shrug and withdraw into themselves, cold.

The shadow draws near. At first, you think it’s dust or mucus in your eye, but as you rub, the only thing that seems to change is the stars dusting your vision. He made you see stars when you first met him, remember? How the blue of his eyes grinned at you from across a dimly lit room? They winked at you, much like embers in a dying fire and no matter what you did, you couldn’t curb the desire to stoke the flames so they could burn brighter. Your presence would be kindle for his cast-iron furnace, you thought. Something fluttered inside you then, and you weren’t sure if it was the early buds of spring or the slow, simmering heat of summer waiting to burn you to cinders.

You step onto the 626 going northbound. As you hop on, you side-eye it, whatever it is. It, the shadow, stands beneath a broken streetlamp. The cheap orange glow flickers and buzzes over its tall, inky frame. Its face is shrouded in a thin mist and surrounded in a mane of feathers. You don’t look at it directly, but you know, you very damn-well know, it’s looking straight at you.

The shadow murmurs something, its voice rattles like autumn leaves in a changing wind, but you don’t listen. You hop on the bus and quickly find a seat, pretending the shiver that crawls over your body is just the winter kissing your exposed skin.

You try your best to wipe away the image from your mind and remember to breathe. You tell yourself, “You are here, you are present, you are safe.” You say the words when you feel a chill of foreboding seep into your belly and spread through your fingertips. It feels similar to that time when...remember? The first time he touched you. He kept the lights off while he worked on you.

“Can we turn the lights on?” you asked him.

“It’s better when it’s dark,” he said, his eyes closed. “Leave it off.”

The bus takes you through a tunnel and the shadow sits in the empty seat next to you. You see its reflection in the window. It turns its flinching head toward the glass and shows you a foggy reflection, features hidden in a series of inclusions and smudges that make up its mouth and two muted hollows for eyes.

The bus crawls through a tunnel. Light cuts in and out through the space like moonlight bouncing off shattered glass. The shadow’s smeared mouth warbles and whispers to you, “let me in, turn on the light.”

You clamp your ears shut and shout for the driver to let you out.

The people sitting behind you glance your way but say nothing. They do nothing. They whisper into each other and close themselves even tighter.

Fear runs through your veins like a January night as your feet stomp on the cracked sidewalk a block from your apartment. You tell yourself what you’re seeing isn’t real, but every car and storefront window jeers at you. The shadow, gangling and rustling, keeps up with you in tandem, and you can’t help but recognize its gait. You felt its presence before. Remember? You felt so small that day when another woman’s name came up on his phone, and even though he told you not to worry, you swore you heard feathers rustle in the room with you.

You slam the door shut behind you and the balmy air in your apartment welcomes you with frigidity.

You are here, you are present, you are safe.

       You leave the lights off because there’s no point if your eyes are closed.

A vibration in your pocket breaks the trauma that was seconds ago and is replaced with the warm relief of his name on your phone.

He texts you: Had a great night. It was fun. It was good seeing you, again :)

Your throat tightens. Why does it sound like a goodbye? You text him back, leaving the words unsent: What are we?

Why do you hesitate?

You finally hit send and watch the little dots dance on his side, and you wait for what feels like a season.

He answers: We’re friends.

You stare at the words for so long that the light cuts from the screen and you are startled by the loud silence that follows after. You’re not stupid, you think, but he makes it so easy to be.

Something scratches at your door. It’s the shadow. You hear its voice from the door gap say, “let me in, turn on the light.”

You hide in your bathroom and turn on the shower, letting the noise and hot air fill the space. Again, you don’t bother with flipping the switch. Right now, you’re trying to drown its voice, but it finds its way inside, it finds its way to you. It scratches again.

“No!” you say, hoarsely.

“Let me in, turn on the light.”

You clamp your ears, shut your eyes, and gnash your teeth. “Go away!”

The room fills with steam and your skin heats from the friction caused by your heart rubbing against your rib cage, an angry bird with no way out.

You start to cry.

The shadow bleeds under the door like smoke. It grapples your legs and hips, feathers and shadow slip over your hands and breasts like soft and worn leather; the whispers make your skin prickle, replacing the gooseflesh with rising down feathers along your neck and around your face.

In the mirror, in the dark, your face is nothing more than a series of inclusions and smears. Two blurry hollows for eyes wink at you and wait and wait for that shadow of truth to settle.

“Turn on the light,” it says.

You are here. You are present. You are safe.

You wipe away the condensation on the glass.

You reach for the switch, long talons curling, wings unfurling.