Hidden In The Dark (IN EDITING)

I've Come To Collect

My mom thought it was just a great idea for us to hang out and make a cake together. I love her so much but I declare she does this stuff on purpose. Does she not know I can't friggin cook, seriously Gordon Ramsey would probably watch my attempt at cooking and wish he could curl up in a hole and die.

My mom doesn't do thing often, but when she does, boy does she go all out. Seriously she went out and bought aprons and professional cooking hats, and of course she had to make it cute and make me dress up in a matching outfit. Right now she has me pouring in the flour and all the other ingredients.

She couldn't help me because she was busy waiting for the oven to preheat to the right temperature. Apparently that takes a lot of work and time, but she did prepare the cake pans so I didn't say anything.

"Okay now stir it."

"Uh mom why aren't we using the mixer?"

"Because that's no fun."

"Yeah it is, you know why, because I don't have to do all the work."

My mom gave me one of those mother looks, the ones that tell you 'do it or I'll shove that spatula up your arse' so naturally I started mixing the ingredients together in the large porcelain bowl.

I hear the oven beep, signaling that it's up to the correct temperature so we can put the batter into the pans and slide them onto the racks in the oven. I pull the oven mitts off when I get it in and close the door, but before we can get started on the icing I set the timer for the correct amount of baking time.

"Okay get the vanilla flavoring out so I can mix it in with the rest of this."

I pull the flavoring out of the cabinet and hand it to her, while she mixes the rest of it together. My hands tingle with an unfamiliar feeling, one that makes the feeling of my hands pressing against the cold marble countertops, weird. As if my sense of touch was enhanced for the time being, but it was so strong right now, that it'd be gone as fast as it had come.

My mother doesn't notice me staring at my hands, or when I trudge off to the half-bath down the hallway. When I look in the mirror I see a different girl, but not a total stranger. It's the same girl from the crash years ago, wide eyed and traumatized, sadness not even working its way into every part of me.

I yank the chef hat off, letting my hair tumble down past my shoulders. It was the same color as my moms, but I was lucky enough to get my dad's facial features, mainly his eye color. I flick the cold water tap on, letting it get as cold as possible, before splashing it multiple times upon my face.

When I look up I don't remove the extra droplets with the hand towel. Instead, my fingers delicately trace the structure of my face while I continue to stare at the reflection. The baby hairs on my face now laid flat down on my forehead from being accidentally wet by the extra amount of water I cupped in my hands.

A sensation weaved itself from my palms to my shoulders, not the same tingly feeling from earlier. This one felt stronger, more noticeable, and almost painful. I glanced down at them, seeing a red mark travel up my limbs in an almost vine-like notion. Watching as it flowed freely under the cold skin, the slight color of back and amber filled my normally blue veins, I feel my own amber eyes go wide. I loose footing for a second, but it's too late to catch myself before I fall and hit my head on the edge of the door knob.

I feel the harsh impact, making my vision blur as I slide down the door onto the floor. A pain rushing towards the back of my head in a frenzy, it takes a minute for me to compose of what happened, but when I do, I reach behind my head and feel the spot. I flinch from the pounding feeling back there when I touch it, along with the fact that my fingers meet warm substance I could barely even feel.

When I withdraw them, instead of being covered in red crimson, they are covered in a black-slightly golden, liquid. I don't even recognize the gasp that escapes my lips, the voice sounding petite and high pitched, as a young frightened girl would sound. The room spins when I look around me, looking for something to grab onto so I can pull myself up.

I use the corner of the bathroom counter to do so, watching the reflection in the mirror go from that of the door behind me, to me taking up most of it. I rip off a piece of toilet paper and pour some peroxide from the cabinets on it. I still as I touch the cold wet material to the back of my head, making sure to collect all the blood that dripped from the wound.

My fingers rake through my hair, trying to place it back to its natural cascade of waves, I pull the chef hat over my head low enough to cover the wound so my mom can't see. The once weird thingy in my arms was now absent, led to be forgotten but there was no way my brain would let that moment out of its grasp, it was there to stay.

Just like everything else that had happened these past couple weeks.

We finished the cake but was too bothered to put effort into detailing it, so there sat our cake in all its glory. Sitting triumphantly upon its beautiful clear glass cake plate, not even touched by the outside air or kissed by the sun, well I mean unless you count the illuminating LED's that clung to the ceiling above.

My head still possesses a throbbing feeling but it no longer bled profusely. The pain had died down a bit, probably as a result from the light pitter patter of the light afternoon rain hitting the windows in a careful assault.  My mother had disappeared off to wherever while I stayed and sat at the kitchen table, the blinds wide open and the rain hitting the ground.

My head strayed away from everything to focus on one, the situation with my arms. I was fully certain at the moment that I was being possessed, but that was just the joking side of me that needed a good laugh for the first time in a while. I clutch the burning red coffee cup in my hands, a strong sweet black liquid steaming in the depths of it. It slightly burns my tongue and the stretch of my throat from its hot temperature, but after drinking it so many times I just grew accustomed to it.

My eyes gaze over the rim to the cup to see the reflection of myself in the glass cabinet before me. A smirk forms on my face when I realize something behind me, or to rephrase it, someone.

"You haven't changed at all." My resilient voice spits out, my voice firmer but cool to the touch.

"I can't say the same about you." A deep scary voice returns from behind me. My eyes don't move away from its figure, nor do they blink.

"What are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious, your payment is late, and I've come to collect."