The Night
I hate the night. In fact, I absolutely despise it. The candlelit flame is the only thing keeping me sane right now. I hate the night. I hate the darkness it brings. I hate the way it makes me question every creak I hear. Every whisper in the wind I think is a shadow of my past coming to take me away. I hate the way it starts a fast-paced race in my heart, and an unsteady trembling in my body. I hate the way it follows me even when my brain is at rest. It consumes me, taking all my dreams and turning them into nightmares. Into a monster. Into darkness. Every time, at the same time, night comes with the gift of darkness, and darkness comes with the same gift every time. Darkness brings a nightmare of its own crafting. Handmade just for me with the memories of my past. It's coming. It's coming soon.
The Gift From Darkness
It begins with a stream. So very peaceful and calm. A dream. It's flowing with my childhood. Memories of laughter in the garden with my mother, bringing joy to all through the kitchen. My sisters singing lovely lullabies until I'm asleep in their arms. Dressing me up like a doll and having beautiful tea parties. My father and brother are away with my grandfather and uncles on weekend fishing trips. It's peace and joy. A dream. Then the flow picks up, filling with the bad memories. A nightmare. The stream begins to fill with the scabs and scars of my past. Cuts and bruises that took so long to heal. So long to become a part of me, not just something looming. Sitting on the surface of my skin, drawing in stares, and questions, and statements, all asked and stated too late. "Are you okay?" "Do you need anything?" "Their family? I never would have guessed." The scabs and scars make me question too. "Am I really a victim?" "Was it all my fault?" Then the scabs begin to bleed, and the bruises begin to break and burst. Until I am drowning. I'm drowning in my past. Suffocating in it, until I'm back. I'm back in my past and the scars are back. Cuts dripping with fresh strawberry red blood , and freshly made plum purple bruises, just like the ones in the garden. I'm back. Back to when my hatred for the night first began. Back to when I questioned every creak in the floor, and every whisper in the wind was my father, or my brother, or my grandfather, or my uncles. And the moon was my mother and sisters. A sliver of light in the dark, but never enough. Never enough to show what really happens in the dark. All the dangers that night brings. I'm drowning and there is a life jacket at their feet, but they don't throw it. So easy to do, but so afraid of what people will think when the morning comes. I'm drowning and screaming until my screams are covered by the waters of the stream. My tears fall into the stream. Unseen and unfelt by anyone meaningful. I'm sinking under. I am no longer myself. I belong to the stream. It has killed me, and my soul is now bruised and scratched up. Just as I have healed, they are back.
Awake
Then I am awake. Pulled from my nightmare by shortness of breath. I am covered in the mark of night. It's cold and wet. It makes my clothes and sheets stick to my skin. The gift that darkness just gave me still in the back of my mind. By morning it will have passed. It will be back though. Same gift in hand the next night.
I hate the night. In fact, I absolutely despise it. I hate the fears and memories that come with it. I hate the darkness that it brings. I hate the way it makes me question every creak in the floor, and every whisper in the wind. I hate the fast-paced race it starts in my heart, and the unsteady trembling it starts in my body. I hate the way it makes me think they're back to take me. I hate the sliver of moon that's never enough. I hate the night. I hate it.
*While this written work does not represent any experience of the writer, every 68 seconds an American is sexually assaulted. And every 9 minutes, that victim is a child . (https://www.rainn.org/statistics).
If you or someone you know is a victim of sexual abuse contact National Sexual Assault Hotline 1-800-656-4673 https://www.rainn.org/
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