Jaime Gill

Listen to Lindsay Brown read Jaime’s story here

…you’d munch popcorn and settle in your seat while the opening titles play over the boy’s bus journey home through sullen Northern England, ominous overhead drone shots intercutting with images of the hero’s pale and anxious face (but this is not a horror film and the boy sits alone – earbuds in, eyes closed, forehead leaning against the clammy school bus window – listening to Lana Del Rey and imagining himself sprawled in a white convertible somewhere sunny in Los Angeles).

…your skin would begin to prickle as the boy nervously approaches his front door on a nondescript street, his fingers fumbling with the keys as piano chords crash discordantly to signify that something is very wrong (but this is not a horror film and the only sounds are the key scraping, the lock clunking, and the boy’s shivery breaths as he wonders what he’ll find on the other side of the door tonight).

…you’d watch the camera pan up blood-splattered stairs and involuntarily hold your breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable jump scare from the bad thing you know must be hiding somewhere near, ready to pounce (but this is not a horror film and that stain on the stairs is only old red wine, and when the boy’s mother calls for him from the kitchen he knows by the wobble in her voice exactly how drunk she is and that tonight will not be a good night).

…your hand would nervously move to your mouth as a shaky handheld camera follows the monster’s lurching pursuit of the wounded and terrified boy from room to room, his hands leaving a blood trail on the walls he bumps into (but this is not a horror film and the boy tries to concentrate on his homework and not the fact that his mother is getting slowly drunker and sadder as the hours limp on, until at the end he begs her to get off the living room floor and – please please please – sleep in her bed tonight).

…you’d gasp as the boy escapes into the dark and empty street, then moan as he stops running, his shoulders heaving, before slowly turning back to the house to bravely save his mother from the monster (but this is not a horror film, and the boy’s mother is the monster, and he can’t save her from herself, no matter how hard he tries, no matter what he threatens or pleads or how hard he prays).

…your pulse would race and you’d lean forward with your breath held throughout the bloody showdown between monster and boy, until you’d clap your hands when the boy finally prevails, slaying the evil and setting the world right again (but this is not a horror film and the credits never roll, this is just the two of them dragging each other through their days, and there is nothing and no one the boy could kill that could make everything better).

This piece was previously published by Trampset

Jaime Gill is a British-born writer living in Cambodia, where he works and volunteers for nonprofits. He reads, runs, boxes, writes, and occasionally socialises. His stories have recently appeared in Missouri Review, The Forge, Fractured Lit, Trampset, and Hunger Mountain, winning awards including a Bridport Prize, Luminaire Prose Award, and New Millennium Writers Award. He has been a finalist for the Bath Short Story Award, Smokelong Grand Micro, and Oxford Flash Fiction Award and is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. He’s currently haphazardly writing a novel, script and yet more short stories. Website: www.jaimegill.com. Newsletter: https://jaimegill.substack.com/

Read more from Jaime:

The Forge – ‘Ghosted‘
Oyster River Pages – ‘Black Sky, Blue Earth‘