I used to dream of you rescuing me,
of being on the edge of darkness,
and hearing your voice call me back,
out of the arms of fear.
Every time I drove home alone,
down 57 in the dark,
I thought about all the ways I could die--
out here driving through the woods without a phone.
My phone never worked,
so I never brought it--
I could hit a deer.
I could lose control.
I could hit a tree.
A drunk driver could hit me.
Even with the brights on,
I could never see clearly.
Even with my glasses on,
I could never see clearly.
That's when I really started to fear the dark--
when I realized you wouldn't be there to bring me back,
that I had put all my hope in something I thought was infallible,
and then you failed me in every way.
I didn't realize how safe you made me feel until you took it away,
so I began to fear the dark.
I began to fear the shadows.
I began to fear death more than ever.
I think fear of the dark is innate in everyone,
but inside me,
it's a monster.
So I imagine my death every I drive home in the dark.
God--
it scares me.
I watch the road so much I can't see it--
I get so nervous that my heart stops every time I see movement in the dark--
my breathing gets shallow and fast--
and I have to turn off the music that I can't drive without.
But the silence only makes things worse.
Your face is imprinted on my eyes,
and every time I blink,
I see my body lying on the side of the road,
illuminated by the red and white strobe lights,
and I see the EMTs crowded around me,
taking my pulse,
hooking me up to oxygen,
and pushing me into the back of an ambulance.
I don't need to be physically rescued--
I need to be rescued from my fear.
I'm afraid of the dark.
