They told us to be afraid of the dark. We boarded up the windows and blankets, too, to capture the cracks. For awhile we burned candles within our house, but even that bit of light was too much.
All up and down the street the darkness of night settled down around our houses, the perfectly manicured lawns, and the beds of flowers. It was like a thick pitch that prevented the eyesight from penetrating its depths.
The children, always curious and never understanding how close danger was to them, could not resist trying to peek through the heavy curtains, the cracks in the boards. I wanted to yell, to scream, to somehow get it across to them to stop what they were doing but we couldn’t make noise either.
I loved my children, but they couldn’t stop their curiosity. They couldn’t keep quiet. Why I’m even trying to survive now I cannot say when I feel like I ought to go and lay down between them.
And then the light goes on.
It’s not mine. Not after what I did, I would not have turned on a light.
The light is the purest, brightest, ugliest of white and is enough to break the dark pitch. Now I’m the one that cannot resist peeking through the cracks. My heart is in my throat as I can see the edges of the light. Does it illuminate my house at all? Can I see them? I don’t want to see them, but I know that’s what my eyes are looking for.
A scream.
Another light, but again it is not mine.
Turn off your damn lights, my mind screams.
And there is another scream. A third light breaks another hole in the night. We’re lost now. I can feel my mind compelling me to go down the stairs and to add my porch light to the others. As the screams become a chorus, I turn away from the window and look down upon my children.
I turn on my light.
I never screamed.
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