Thursday, February 9, 2012


You are lying in your bed, one arm laid out before you as you face the closet. You're expecting a visitor.

You never invited him. You wish he'd never come again. Every night he creeps out of the closet and sits on your bed, like a loyal dog. Your own dog long ago vacated your room, almost as though he knew that the visitor was coming.

You don't sleep very much. He keeps such an erratic schedule and you don't want to be sleeping when he's there. Somehow the idea of knowing what's happening is more valuable than a few hours of oblivion.

Not that you really know what's happening.

Every night he sits on your bed, in that space that you have learnt to leave for him. Most nights he just watches you as you breathe and stare back at him. His eyes are the only part of his face you ever really see: large and catlike in the darkness. You wonder what he's thinking... if he's thinking at all. You never sleep much on these nights. He sits there for so long.

It's the other nights that worry you most. Those nights when he looks to your arm and drags a long claw across it. You don't think claw is the right word for those knife-like appendages but you don't want to think about it. You do wonder what's he's thinking as the blood pools around your arm and soaks into your sheets. Watching. Still.

You sleep slightly better these nights. He doesn't stay long once he's done.

Every night you leave your arm out for him. You don't want to know what would happen if he had to come and find it.

Your family doesn't believe you. They think the wounds are self-inflicted.

Your new therapist doesn't believe you. He thinks that these are dreams to justify your actions.

Sometimes you wonder if, for a small moment, they believe you. If, for one tiny instant in time, they consider that there is truth behind your words.

Most of the time you wonder how much longer it will be til your therapist decides that you're beyond his abilities. Sometimes you wonder how that conversation would go: the looks on your parents faces, the papers to be filed at school. You wonder what it would be like, the idea of straightjackets even bringing a bitter smile to your face on occasion.

But most of all you wonder that, maybe, if you were sent away he won't follow you. That maybe he needs you to be alone. That maybe he needs a closet to get around. That maybe he would find someone else to visit and watch.

Your closet door creaks open, and in the darkness you can see a human shape. The reflection of the streetlights in those large eyes make you realize that it's a foolish hope.

You'll never get away.

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