Cautiously, attentively, I listen. Are they asleep? My ears catch the muffled, gentle sounds of snoring. Yes, they are. Anxiously, I mince past them and proceed down the hallway. If they hear me, they'll catch me. And if they catch me, they'll let the scary people take me away.
I keep walking. I walk as close to the wall as I can, That way, the floorboards won't creak. Gingerly, I continue, as if I'm hundreds of feet above the ground, clinging to the edge of a windswept balcony, rather than just padding softly down my own hallway. "That's right," I whisper to myself. "You're almost out."
The front door, grey paint cracked and peeling, swings open, and, a moment later, closes with a muted click, but I've already made it through the doorway. My pale feet are barely brushing the moist grass, rich with the dew of night, as I break into a run. "Keep running," I tell myself over and over again. "You're free."
What would my parents think if they saw me now? They'd think I was an insane, demented lunatic, and that I'd finally leapt past the point of no return. Finally.
And they'd probably be right. At least, according to their opinion of sanity.
The house fades away. I'm still sprinting, the spidery skeletons of trees shuddering all around me, adorned with papery remnants of their summer leaves. They shiver as I pass, like I'm something evil, something bad, something utterly and completely detestable, but it doesn't matter, because I'm gone before they can hurt me.
My heart is throbbing in my chest, its beat reminiscent of a tribal drum. As it pulsates faster and faster, I time my footsteps to its pounding and continue onward.
And then, I'm out. I'm in the clearing. I skid to a stop, almost toppling as the momentum of my movement drags me forward. Silence, interrupted only by my frantic panting, surrounds me for a few moments. But, as soon as I can muster the strength to do so, I stand tall, stretching my short body to its full height, spreading my arms as if I'm an eagle about to take flight.
I'm here.
"I'm here!" I shout, the sound of my voice almost frightening me with its intensity. It echoes through the skeleton trees once, twice, three times...and dies away.
"Where are you?" I mutter. "Where are you? Where are you?" Again and again I chant the words, as if they're some sort of talisman, a charm to keep away bad things and bring the wonderful ones nearer.
But the words cease to come when I notice something sparkling a few feet in front me. The lights are here.
They emerge from the dewy meadow grass, first one, then two, and then too many for me to count. To me, it seems like the stars have fallen from the sky just for me, and they've waited for me to arrive before they begin dancing.
Fireworks can't compare to fireflies.
I grin jubilantly, my sweaty face aching from the effort, and dash into the middle of the largest swarm, dancing as I go. If the doctors who told my parents that I was weak-minded saw me now, they'd think I was completely gone. They'd have me sent away to a lonely place without the fireflies, without the trees. They would stare at me, a thin wraith of a girl, clad in blue striped pajamas, dancing furiously to music that they couldn't hear, pounding my muddy feet into the meadow grass again and again, sweaty brown hair strewn over my face, laughing in delight and crying at the same time because I'm so overwhelmed by how beautiful the world is. They would stare at me with pity, just because they can't see what I see. They would feel the need to save me from the so-called insanity decaying my mind. They would save me by bringing me away from everything I love.
I don't want them to save me.
Even if they are right, I don't care. Insanity is worth it if it feels like this.
I spin recklessly around and around, the fireflies gathering around me, their lights blurring together until my entire world is one muddled blend of tiny yellow stars, silver moonlight, and the edges of the skeleton trees, still silhouetted against the moon. I swirl until I collapse out of sheer dizziness. Then, I stagger to my feet and do it all over again.
I'm not crazy. Just because I see beauty in what everybody else says is childish, just because I think simple things are wonderful, just because I dance to music the doctors can't hear, that's what they say I am. But I'm not. I'm not.
I wake the next morning to the sound of my mother calling me, frustrated. "It's time for breakfast, I've already called you seven times. Now wake up! What is wrong with you, child!"
Wearily, I open my eyes. Was it all a dream? Did I never dance among the stars? Am I really crazy?
Then, I hear my mother speaking to my father.
"John, look at this. We've got to give that child a talking-to. See these filthy footprints all over the floor? They weren't here last night. She's already been up this morning and tracked in the dirt. I swear, it's worse than having a dog around."
I crack a smile and began laughing in a thin, high-pitched voice.
