In the Absence of Light

1

Ivy POV

I have always been afraid of the dark.

Ever since I was a little girl, darkness has scared me. I was uncomfortable in movie theatres and arcades and terrified during electricity blackouts. One nightlight wasn't enough to get me to sleep at night. I wouldn't feel safe without my bedroom door open and the hallway light on.

It became a lot easier in my teens. At least then, I could close my door. As long as I saw the yellow glow beam through the wooden frame, I'd be able to sleep. Those were my best years.

That flexibility didn't last long, though.

Once I moved out, my feelings of unsafety returned. I no longer had the protective blanket of my family's presence, nor the benefits of the advanced security systems that come with wealthy parents.

My fears continue to this day. If anything, they've become worse. As soon as the sun goes down, I become tense. I'm on edge. My senses are heightened, and my fight-or-flight response is always on the verge of being triggered.

The source of my discomfort is unknown back then. Personally, I believe my mind was trying to prepare me. My childhood anxieties were warning me, foreshadowing the threats I would face in my adulthood.

My uncle always tried to convince me that my fears were senseless. Bad things can happen at any time, he'd say, the dark is no more cruel than the light.

And I don't deny his statement, but the major events in my life would prove him wrong.

Every bad thing that has ever happened to me, happened in the dark—my first panic attack, my first car accident, my worst breakup, my grandmother's death, and of course, my rape.

They all happened in the dark.

Nothing that bad has ever happened to me in the daylight. In fact, my daytime experiences cannot even begin to measure up to the trauma I've lived through after sundown.

My uncle was right about one thing, though. I am not fearful of the darkness itself. I am afraid of its associated consequences—of the loss of vision and the insecurity it brings.

I can't see as much as I can in the daylight. I can't see the vehicles on the road unless they shine their lights, and I can't see the faces of those around me unless they're angled right.

I don't like not knowing what's ahead of me.

That doesn't just apply to the physical world either. I'd like to know the future, too. I would feel a lot better if I knew what the universe had in store for me. Maybe not too far into the future, but a few days, weeks, or maybe even a month.

In the dark, most of what I see is inside my head. I see what my mind tells me to. Sometimes it's as simple as the recollection of the layout of a room to help me navigate through the darkness, or the imaginary scenario in which I overcome my fear of the dark and confidently stride through the town illuminated only by the soft glow of streetlights.

Most of the time, though, my mind is not that positive nor helpful. Most of the time, it's irrational, clinging to the painful memories of my past experiences in the dark. It reminds me of what has happened, and that it can happen again without warning.

That's why I like the light. I like to know what's coming so that I can prepare for it. But in the darkness, I cannot see anything but the past.

I couldn't see the tree that fell onto the road, I couldn't see my grandma's expression when she passed, and when I entered that frat house last year, I couldn't see my rape coming.