It starts with a whisper. It always does. As I lay in silence and peaceful darkness, the ghost of a sound ricochets throughout my bedroom, sending my heart into an uneven sprint and causing my thoughts to freeze in anticipation of another.
My body stills, and I must make a conscious effort to breathe. Though I don't want to see, my eyes dart around the room, scanning for the believable and unbelievable in the shadows. The streetlight outside of my window is a blessing and a curse, both illuminating the darkness and creating more shadows.
Sweat begins to collect at the edge of my hairline, but I dare not abandon the protection of the sheets.
I become angry and agitated at the irrational fears preventing sleep from approaching, yet this does nothing to stop every scary scene in every movie that I have ever seen from flickering through my brain when I close my eyes.
My heartbeat has finally slowed to only just above average and I feel myself drifting, when suddenly, the rustle of what may be a plastic bag pushes unwanted images of the undead crawling toward my bed into my mind.
I pray for the sun, for its gentle peace to find me in this dark torment. I am desperate, and in my darkest moments I hope for my family to catch the eyes of these monsters in my place. I hate my fears and even myself for my weak spirit, but my wishes don't change. They never do.
It starts with a whisper.
- K.M. 08.18.2014
