It Never Knocked

When it showed up, it didn’t make a sound. It didn’t knock, or shout, or get violent. It just appeared quietly. I didn’t know that the worst monsters will never make themselves known before they attack.

My mom said she was tired. And that word became our explanation for everything. Tired was why she sat down halfway up the stairs. Tired was why her hands shook. Tired was an easy answer. Tired was what made us complicit.

At night, I could hear her breathing from down the hall. It made me nervous, it was uneven and labored. I stayed awake longer than I should have, listening, counting each breath as if I kept track, nothing bad could happen. Like my attention to it put all the monsters at bay.

The thing didn’t rush. It was patient, far more than any of us. It took her slowly, in increments so small we got used to it. First it ate her appetite, then it took her energy. Her laugh started sounding hollow, but we laughed too.

She still smiled at me. Even when she was shrinking and her clothes hung loose. That smile hurt more than anything because it felt like she was apologizing for something. I asked myself often, if I had somehow invited the monsters in that we so urgently told ourselves weren't real.

People spoke to us in careful voices after that. Their words were soft and measured. They told us to be hopeful... to stay strong. They never looked at her directly for very long. Why couldn't they look at her.

The thing grew bolder as time went on. It stopped hiding when it attacked. I could see it when she winced as she stood, and in that weak way she gripped the counter. It gnawed at her, its teeth piercing deep into the muscle and bone. I watched, helpless. I lived with the fear that if I said something, anything, it'd come for me as well. Sometimes she would stare off into space, and I wondered if she could see it too.

I tried to help in ways I thought wouldn't upset it or her. I carried things she couldn’t lift anymore. I learned how to cook meals that she barely touched, and I sat beside her and pretended I wasn’t scared when her hand felt brittle and loose.

At night, I could hear something chewing. Not loudly, but persistent all the same. I would wake up with my heart pounding, convinced I could hear it, but it'd stop. My attention to it making it pause I'd believe. So I'd stay awake as long as I could, days upon days.

There were days when she seemed better. Those days, the thing felt farther away, like maybe it had gotten bored or full and left. Those were the days I believed we might win.

Then there were days when she couldn’t get out of bed. That she could barely breathe. Days where it gnawed more fervently. Where it was always by her.

She started apologizing a lot. For sleeping. For forgetting things. For hurting. I told her it was okay every time, even when my throat felt like it was closing, even when it was a lie.

The thing took her hair next. It came out in soft clumps. She tried to laugh about it. I cried in the bathroom so she couldn’t hear me.

I don’t, or can't remember the exact moment it finished eating her. I just remember the room was too quiet afterward. I remembered not hearing her strained breaths. After that everything happened very fast and slow at the same time.

I could only look on at the tombstone, the flowers placed neatly at the base as a collective concordant wave of whispers saying "I’m sorry" threatened to crush me. People hugged me and their voices faded to static.

Whatever took her didn’t need to hurt me anymore. It had already taught me what loss felt like. It left me alone, wondering how you’re supposed to keep breathing when the person who taught you how, isn't.