Danger in the light

Night. The house is dark. I am uneasy, just for a moment, worried about my sister. Then I have an image of her in my mind, as she was as a preteen, concern for her whereabouts slowly swallowed by a sense that she is home, just down the street, exactly where she should be.

That I am not there is not troubling. I am safe at home as well. Though why she would be a child, and yet living in another house than I, is an unrecognized oddness.

The house is dark, and I should check the locks.

I choose not to turn on lights, as if they will draw attention to me, as if they will draw attention to the possibly unlocked doors. As if they will draw rather than dissuade potential intruders.

I don’t need lights, anyway, because my eyes are adjusted to the darkness.

I consider, and then leave my phone. I don’t need it either, I think, as I slip down hallways, down stairs, to the lowest level of the house.

Do I turn the lock? Or do I check to find the house already locked?

I am not sure; I only know I am not immediately awash with the fear that would meet discovery of an unlocked door, don’t fear, immediately, who might be here with me, in the dark…

No, I slip back up the dark stairs unfazed and unworried, until I reach the next floor.

I came down in darkness; now the lights are on.

In this room.

And the next.

And beyond.

Someone is here.

Panic wells. I don’t have my phone; I didn’t need it. So I believed.

Should I call out? Pretend I have my phone, pretend I am calling the police? Slip out, unseen, into the night, away from…?

Who could be here? Why would they turn on all the lights?

I wake in the half-light of predawn, frightened and relieved to be awake.


~ by lorakceel on June 2, 2014.

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