My Darkness, My Stranger

Jenny Pan '22

    The first time I encountered him was five years ago. He disturbed the peacefulness of the night, and I felt tension -- like heavy air -- radiating from my surroundings as if the spirit were trying to consume me. Foolish and vulnerable as I was at the age of nine, I submitted to his rule, and he destroyed my childhood. I was unmoving, unblinking, unspeaking, but the spirit woke me from my slumber and I froze -- hearing nothing but the groans of the angry wind in the starless night. For the first time, I was completely helpless. I could no longer rely on myself to fight through my obstacles. My foster parents were invisible to me; they were prowling the bars for liquor and gullible victims.

    A scream escaped my chapped lips as the windows began to shatter and the walls began to shake. Too bad my foster parents never bothered to listen when I told them that a demon was in my room -- they accused me of having psychotic rages that damaged the sloppy paint job. My scream penetrated my eardrums, causing a sudden unwanted silence -- I didn’t recognize that hoarse voice. He laughed cruelly at my inevitable reaction; while goosebumps covered my body, my muscles tensed, and a single drop of cold fear fell as the chilling air from his breath escaped into my room. I wasn't certain if the spirit’s presence was stalking me, especially as my home was already overtaken by the freezing presence of loneliness. Every night, I heard soft echoes trying to brainwash me; my face would scrunch up with concentration to evade the horror. These phantoms were sirens and would sometimes hum melodies with their ghostly voices.

    Every night, I waited for a savior to rise out of the dark. The moon first lured me away from the chaos inside me with her mystic silvery light. I never knew whom to trust.

    This feeling was similar to when the doctors took me away from my real parents -- I became accustomed to waiting for the worst possible fate to befall me. My life became a dartboard -- I could not avoid the piercing daggers that cut my flesh, leaving dark scars.

    To this day, as I walk along the dark alleyways of my hometown, my presence no longer yields innocence. My confident shadow, willowy and tall, acts as a shield. His appearance no longer surprises me as it did before, and I can almost say I feel prepared. Prepared for the unsteady heartbeats, my ears straining to hear the sound of his arrival. Prepared for the sudden temperature drop. Dirty water from the rain drips down unsteadily, creating ripples in tiny ponds on the slippery sidewalk, its echoes reflecting off the moldy, stone-clad walls, causing me to turn my head and yearn for an evil act to happen.

    Reluctantly, I continue onward, feeling courageous and maybe foolish enough to confront the evil. Slowly, I tiptoe across the alley; my heart is racing with anticipation, and my mind is scheming impatiently with my movements. Shadows creep swiftly past rooftops, and a black cat skids noiselessly above me, watching each step. The cat’s intense green eyes bore straight through my soul and catch me, frozen in my rebellious acts -- almost as if warning me. I squirm under his stare, and at last, he snarls mysteriously, leaving me alone in this dark alley that smells like the familiar wet garbage and rot of my old neighborhood.  

    Why are you not scared? a sinister voice whispers, causing me to scream. I wait for the sound to pierce through the freezing air, cutting the silence…but it does not happen. Instead, the message repeats inside of me, surrounding me, creating a trap that I cannot escape. I am afraid of turning into the psychopath that my foster parents and the doctor always thought I was.

    “Because I’m not -- I am not scared of you!” I shout with exasperation. I shout with fury. I shout with hatred. I want to shout until streetlights begin to turn on because of my outrage, until lights appear through windows as drowsy sleepers wake to my insanity, until my voice is cracked and dehydrated. My soul is burning with red, angry heat. The echoes of my voice turn into my foster mother’s drunk cries; the memory of my forgotten parents lingers teasingly in my head--

    -- what I am afraid of is reality bruising into my skin, my brain, and my innocence, like claws sinking into delicate flesh.

    What have I done? I have awakened the demon inside. I am no longer the canvas but the instrument that she will use for inflicting pain upon the corrupt minds of those responsible for sinful deeds.

     I close my eyes, waiting for something to happen.

     Nothing.

    There’s only my darkness, my stranger.