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Tangerine Lights

Someone told me to write about it once.

By Jordan BertramPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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What's on the other side of the door?

From the dim under the bathroom door she could only be certain of one thing. The tangerine light. She curled in the corner of that bathroom every night, ready. Ready for what, she wasn’t sure. But she curled her hands into balls and sat on them and waited, knowing the one thing she was sure about the tangerine lights. The only essence of color that wiggled its way into that bathroom, splashing all over the tile floor. She was shivering. The tile looked warm from the light but was cold and uninviting, hostile to the touch. The closer she moved toward the door the more of her exposed skin brushed the tile, raising the hairs on her neck.

She knew she couldn’t go out there. She was never allowed out there. And the constant incoherent mumbling and clanging as the bottle was walked up and down the stairs made sure she never stepped foot in the hall. She didn’t know who roamed the halls. She never got to see his face, only knowing he had dark hair and smelled of alcohol when he embraced her and it went dark. She didn’t know why she was in the bathroom, couldn’t remember how long she’d be there, or what her name was. But she was sure of one thing. The tangerine light never faltered from sneaking underneath the crack in the door and inviting her to join the world every day despite sun never showing its face from behind the stapled curtains.

She was gaunt, growing ghostly from lack of sunlight and food. Yet the tangerine light stood still, offering nothing more than a warm glow, but its persistent shine brought about the idea of hope amongst the haunting darkness of the room. Illuminating the corners of the girl's mind that had been clouded by the four walls that surrounded her, the tangerine light was her only peace and solace from her own unescapable thoughts. She saw warmth and comfort and flashes of her mother's brown hair flashed before her eyes in the darkness. Shapes started to appear in the shadows and footsteps could be heard... masking the tangerine light momentarily. The air was seemingly sucked from the room and the girl's chest began to tighten. Slowly at first with a dull ache until it amplified so much it made the girl squirm, but she dare not make a noise. Afraid to stir what was in the hall.

How many days had it been? Since she had seen something other than the tangerine light. How many meals had she missed? How many minutes could she go without screaming and taking a deep breath? The tangerine light was always there but now the girl was dying on the inside. Eyes beginning to slowly stop adjusting to the persistent dark that crept into her dreams, perpetually unfocused. Color slowly vanishing from blushing cheeks. Hair falling out in clumps on the floor. The tangerine light never lost its luster but its admirer was losing her fight. She was slowly withering away amidst the darkness. Against the ever-luminescent tangerine light, no longer enough to stir her, she lay in the fetal position with hope lost.

With starvation, dehydration, and hallucination the house blew up that day and the tangerine light erupted through the roof, puddling in the streets. Running into the gutters and storm drains and under the door of the house next door.

Marina Deveraux was 12-years-old, missing for 167 days from her town in Middle River, Montana. Her remains were found in the house of 67-year-old Jackson Hopper, a mechanic at the downtown auto body shop. She was recovered only 14 miles from her childhood home. The police investigation lasted six days before it ran cold and the local task force stopped investigation.

psychological
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