2023 Short Story & Essay Contest: Second Place, High School Short Story Contest
“No, I can’t come home for Thanksgiving. How many times do I have to tell you?” Nora’s voice rises to a shout as she breaks her father’s murmuring tirade on the other end of the phone. Startled by the sudden shrilling tone of her own voice, she cocks the phone slightly away from her ear and scans around, feeling eased that she is the only passenger on the bus. She lowers her voice anyway. “My phone is about to die. Don’t call me again. I am really—busy.” Her phone screen turns all-black.
“Jeez,” she mutters under her breath. With a low sigh, Nora tucks her phone into the side pocket of her canvas bookbag resting on her lap and leans back in the hard plastic seat. The white incandescent light from the bus ceiling throws a mechanical sheen of glow on her weary face.
The digital clock display reads 11:35. She’s taking the last bus for the third day in a row, working late on a biomedical research project for her senior year in college. She has finally submitted the report tonight.
Nora yawns and rests her head against the rattling window as the bus wends its way through the city, toward the southeast suburb. Her thoughts wander to her father—his sallow face, bloodshot eyes, alcohol-infused breath. Ever since she could remember, her father has been a drinker. Their house was always littered with empty liquor bottles and beer cans. Things only got worse when she entered her teenage years. When her father got drunk, he smashed his bottle on the floor in front of her weeping mother or staggered across the house and yelled at Nora and her younger brother. Then, one day, when Nora got home from school, her mother had already left with her brother. They never returned, leaving her alone with her drunk father. Numerous times Nora grappled with why her mother didn’t take her along with them. The question plagued her mind, but she couldn’t find the answer. Nora stumbled through her teen years, swallowing a harrowing pain of loneliness, cocooning herself in her own little world.
That’s the life she never wants to go back to. Nora glances out the window, hoping to suppress her train of memory. What she sees is only darkness smothering the street save for a few flickering streetlights and the red taillights of occasional cars chugging by.
“Glosswood Street,” a robotic voice floats from the speaker overhead—Nora’s stop. The door creaks open and Nora lands on the concrete ground with a half jump, half step. She takes a deep inhale of the night air. It smells crisp, with a hint of smoke.
Nora walks along the street to her apartment, a half-mile. Usually she would be wearing her earbuds, listening to Adele or Ed Sheeran, but not tonight, all thanks to the dead phone battery.
The night is quiet and starless. The wind brushes her face and combs through her hair, bringing waves of chill. She hugs her arms around her chest and strides forward, her sneakers crunching on the dry leaves on the sidewalk.
A rustling sound from behind startles her. Nora glimpses back. Nothing. It’s probably a squirrel or some small creature scuttling across the street. But the sound persists and hardens into short, steady footfalls, thumping against the concrete. She quickens her step. The footsteps behind her also pick up speed.
She turns at a corner, hoping the sound won’t tail her. For a few seconds the steps cease but soon reappear. A coil of fear wrenches in her stomach. She remembers one of the recent news headlines: “Lone College Students: Likely Targets for Stalkers.” The article suggested carrying a pepper spray keychain, which Nora had planned to buy but kept putting off. She feels regretful now.
She hustles forward, wishing for someone to pass by, but the street is dim and empty at this hour. A pang of helplessness lances through her, prickling her skin.
She experienced the same helpless feeling at 10 years old when she fell off an apple tree in the backyard, spraining her ankle. She cried for help as a sharp pain radiated through her foot. Her dad rushed and scooped her up, carrying her to the couch. He compressed an ice pack on her swollen ankle and stroked her hair. It was one of the few days he wasn’t drunk, which is probably why she remembers it so well.
But now, nobody is there to help her and she has to face the situation alone.
Do something before they make a move. Nora’s pulse pounds in her throat; her brain gropes to find possibilities to shake off the follower. She fishes out her phone, only to remember that it’s dead. But holding the phone still brings her a sliver of security.
Only one more block before she reaches her apartment. But before that, she’ll pass by the entrance of a lightless alley on her right. That might be my last chance. Although the darkness might give the person a chance to attack her, it would also offer a better shade to shield herself. She decides to take the risk.
Nora makes a swift turn into the alley and thrusts her way behind a shack that construction workers temporarily use to store their equipment. She holds her ragged breath and stays as quiet as possible. After a brief lapse of silence, the same footsteps echo on the brick lane, nearing the shack. A bubble of panic fills her chest. Nora glimpses a blurred silhouette of a broad-shouldered, hooded man in boots, his heavy exhale audible in the cold air.
To her relief, he continues forward without shifting his gaze toward the shack. His steps slowly fade into the distance. Nora fears he will be back once he realizes she’s no longer in front of him. She summons all her strength and rushes out of the lane, bolting toward her apartment. Her breaths burn a fire in her throat.
She finally reaches the apartment building’s paint-peeling iron gate and sets her index finger on the pin pad, but punches in the wrong code the first time, triggering a harsh beep. A swishing sound comes from the dumpster beside the gate, making her jump. Just a stray cat. Steadying her hand, Nora enters the pin code one more time. The gate clunks open.
She dashes in as the gate clinks shut behind her. She clomps up the stairs to the fifth floor, gasping. The dim light bulb dangling from the stair ceiling casts her lone shadow on the grimy wall.
Nora pries open the door of her apartment and rushes inside. As the door closes with a thud, she fastens the security chain with her trembling fingers. The apartment is cold and stark. She reaches for the light switch but withdraws her hand before flicking it on. What if that person is watching from outside?
Nora shuffles through the dark living room, bumps into a coffee table, and teeters into her bedroom. A solitary gauze of moonlight through the half-opened blinds guides her to the bed. She drops her bag on the bed and bends down, fumbling to find the power socket in the corner of the wall and plug in her phone.
She collapses on the carpet and leans against the wall, drained and depleted. A straining silence envelops her like chill air; a sense of desolation sweeps over her like a rising tide. Nora bites her lip to keep from crying. In this city, she feels like a grain of sand drifting in the wind, so small, so lonely.
Her phone flashes alive and vibrates to signal missed text messages. Without picking up the phone, she clicks open the texts. All of them are from her father:
“I want to tell you I am sober for a hundred days.”
“I am sorry for the past.”
“Are you warm?”
“Are you safe?”
“I miss you!”
“I love you!”
Tears sting her eyes. Slowly, she lifts one hand and hovers it above the phone, as if the soft blue light from it is the only source of warmth.
