33 tongue. I fiercely swished fluoride around my mouth (I was terrified of cavities). I frantically killed a daddy-long-leg in the corner, holding it as far away from my body as possible between toilet paper and flushing it away. It had become a weekly routine in an old house such as ours. Finally, I flicked out the lights and slid under my smooth, cool sheets. The house was quiet. The lights were out. I was alone for the first time all day. I’m alone for the first time all day. My heart began to throb anxiously. My sheets had been unmoved from their messy state since the night before. I thought of when the Angel of Death had passed by our house, rattled our fences askew, and lit up the windy night with an extraterrestrial glow. I thought of the gargantuan oak tree next door, torn asunder by a rainless fury. I thought of the grounded planes at LAX, who longed to soar and yet could not. I thought of the presence above my house last night, Santa Ana, who pondered clawing our roof from our walls. How she came, how she could not be stopped, and how she showed no mercy. And how she might return once more. In the darkness, I waited for her arrival. THUMP.
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