Dawn Before Dusk

• Naofar Shah, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2021

Misunderstanding. It’s like drowning in a pool of air, suffocating slowly, even though the oxygen is right there, all you need to do is inhale and exhale. But even that is too damn hard.
“Dawn?” she snapped out of her daydream, fiddling with the ends of her chestnut hair, “You need to tell me more for me to help you,” the therapist began.
At first, she just stared. She stared at the painting behind him, then at his oak desk, papers scatted above it. But he kept tapping his pen. That damn pen. Tip tap, tip tap. Like a solid heartbeat against a glass cage. She sighed. Dawn tried to divert her attention to something else, but his gaze stayed trained on her. Cautiously, she stood up, walking around the room, the handcuffs still tightly enclosed around her wrists, jangling as she walked. His grey eyes hounded her, following her every move.
“I got my first vision years ago,” She croaked. Dawn used her teeth to roll up her sleeve, revealing a thread of bruises marked against her dark skin. “As you already know, my parents weren’t the nicest people. They hurt me in ways that I could never speak of. They did things that I’ve tried so hard to forget, but I just can’t,” Dawn continued stalking up and down the small room, her eyes fixed on the cream coloured walls. The psychologist sat up straight, ignoring the glances the police officers shot him from behind the door. He waved his hand at them, signalling for them to leave. They reluctantly obliged.
“What do you see in your visions?”
Dawn paused momentarily, her finger tapping lightly against the oak table, “I see them – my parents. Just flashes of them talking to me, telling me that they’re sorry. I usually can’t make out too much, it just sounds like incoherent muffling.”
The psychologist jotted something down on his notepad. Dawn’s eyes scanned the room. A window. “Now, tell me, Dawn. What made you kill your sister,” he stayed deadly still, his expression deadpan. Dawn’s lips curved into a sinister smile,
“She looked like my mum.”
She paced back and forth, something devilish forming in her malicious mind, “Tell me, Mr Smith, what made you take up psychology?”
He paused, “People like you who have so many questions, but no real answer.”
“And you believe a diagnosis is an answer?”
He sighed, “No, but it helps ‘normalise’ your situation.”
Dawn’s eyes caught sight of the pen. It was a silver pen, its reflection shining in the morning light. It looked sharp – sharp enough to cause serious damage. “Dawn, you listening?” She hummed in response. Her legs involuntarily shifted towards the coffee table, her fingers brushing upon the contents. The man turned once again, mumbling something about prescriptions.
And just like that, the tip of the pen made contact with his neck and Mr Smith laid lifeless on the ground in a bath of his own blood.
“You can’t diagnose me.”