Night Terror

 

The teenager didn't understand that it was only her mind, that she could have controlled it. That it didn't have to mean staring at her doorway until sunrise, people standing and staring...standing around her bed, standing by the window, staring with stone-cold hateful eyes. She didn't understand that it was only her mind.

 

And the little girl, that damn little girl who walked briskly and silently into her room every night with her head low and blood on her pale-colored dress with thick black braids. That damn little girl who was so terrifying because she always walked into the room so briskly, and walked and walked with her head down until she faded into nothing.

 

And no one knew or understood what it was like to tremble in cold terror in the darkest and blackest and coldest moment of the night, even as her parents snored lightly in the next room and her siblings slept in the room down the hall. No one knew or understood why the teenager stumbled through days consumed with memories she couldn't grasp and the horror of expecting the little bloodied girl to walk into her room at night again and again and again.

 

But the teenager fought, she fought. She stared into her own eyes, pressed her palms against the cold mirror, stared into the dark abyss of her own eyes. And her parents snored lightly in the next room, and she wanted death, she tasted death.

 

And no one understood that their conversations where meaningless. That she didn't care about relationships or money or school or work or friends or accomplishment or failure or happiness or sadness or God. And no one understood that she didn't care and that as they happily chatted away she was being sucked down, down, down and her mind was like an evil force that terrified her and she felt powerless to fight against it.

 

And the teenager fought. Ran down hallways, ran and ran, breathlessly crying and falling into the arms of her father in slumber, shivering against his warm heaving chest, his heavy hand stroking her hair, her mother's warm breath beside her. Her mother's quiet voice breaking through the silence, saying she'll be fine and drifting off to soft peaceful sleep, and her father's hand still on her head as he drifts off to peaceful sleep, and the teenager didn't understand that it was her mind as she shivered against her father's heaving chest and strangers stood around the bed staring with eyes so cold and so hateful.

 

'You'll be fine' her parents told her on bright days when her spirit was shattered and such joy filled the house. Such laughter and joy and warmth, and the teenager felt nothing but a cold terror surrounding her. And her parents told her to pray, she must pray. And her parents pondered in quiet conversation as mother marinated the chicken and father fixed the lightbulb in the ceiling....her parents wondered if perhaps she would grow out of it. Maybe she was feeling stressed about school? Maybe she'd fallen off her spiritual path, maybe she'd lost focus of God? And father said, 'I need to buy more lightbulbs' and mother said 'please will you get the potatoes out of the pantry', and the teenager drowned herself in music.

 

And the teenager dreaded the night, when strangers stood and stared hatefully at her trembling form, and the bloodied little girl walked briskly into her room with her head down, and her parents snored lightly in the next room, their distant warmth a stabbing pain, the coldness clutching and crippling her, her mind an evil force, her parents so peaceful in soft and pleasant slumber.

Reviews

[Adela Muresan]

I like the way you present a sick mind as an evil force, and the difference between simple people and ,,unusual,, ones by showing happiness, tranquility and desperation in a family.

I would try to enlarge this if I were you. Put some dialogues, names and details here and there � it's worth it.

A.M.

[.organized.chaos.]

this hit home for various reasons. Though an adult, I am still that teenager.

Agreeing with the previous reviewer, you should broaden this.... Thanks for sharing.