I liked to think that darkness wasn't real. Not the figurative kind, but what happens when the sun sets and the moon comes out, and doesn't shine, because it's not supposed to, and it can't. I made myself believe that it was light in a dark coat, that this was what he slept in, just like I slept in my pajamas. I convinced myself that the shadows were children, growing brighter and older each second, to one day blend into the world.
Then the darkness took her.
He reached out his whispy fingers, and snatched her in her sleep. Said he loved her, that he was caring for her. But darkness doesn't feel. Not the real kind. The kind that watches you in your sleep, blankets you when the lights go out, turns you blind for as long as it can, caresses your cheek and hides the things you don't want to see, yet feel even more terrified because it could be anywhere out there, just waiting, and you can't see it.
Darkness lives for fear. It doesn't know anything else, but it's killing itself by the things people do when they're scared of the dark;
turn the light on.
