I didn’t invite Nightmare into my home, but he snuck in this week. I let my hair down for the night, climbed into a cold bed and turned out the light, thinking I was alone.
I read the news and suddenly Nightmare had slid from his hiding place and was breathing down the back of my neck. He whispered, “look how you failed, look at the pain and know that it’s your fault.” He made me cry - hard like when I was little, but mom’s not here anymore to tell me it isn’t real.
And even if she was, I couldn’t believe her this time.
Finally, exhausted, I slid my knife of truth across his neck and silenced him with a sentence: “Don’t lie to me - there’s nothing I could’ve done.” Nightmare didn’t die, but crept back under my bed and kept quite long enough for me to fall asleep a few hours before dawn.
He was there the next night though, and he’d grown. This time I had to tell him to move over just so I could fit in the bed.
Before he could start, I insisted it wasn’t my fault. He said that’s right my dear - you couldn’t keep her safe just like you can’t keep anyone safe. No one is truly safe with Nightmare on the loose.
I finally realized that Nightmare was in my bed because I had opened the door and let him in willingly. So I tossed the blankets aside, went to my knees and talked to the good Shepherd. I didn’t have much to say, but I cried to him and asked him to take Nightmare from me. I thanked him for being the only good part of this - for providing comfort and a warm welcome for lost little children.
Nightmare sits outside my house now, curled up beneath my porch. He follows me to work sometimes, and visits me in the night. But he’s not in power for much longer, and I know someone much stronger.
“Like one, that on a lonesome road
ReplyDeleteDoth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.”
― Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
This reminded me of the Coleridge.
I've always thought your mysterious pieces--the ones where you refuse to tell the reader what exactly is at stake and what is happening--are some of your best writing.
ReplyDeleteCan you imagine a novel made up of shorter fragments and anecdotes, all connected, of course, but loosely. When the novel was invented, there was no omnipotent narrator, no narrator at all! The 18th Century English novel was often presented as a "real" collection of letters or diary/journal entries.
I love that piece! It’s a great compliment to be compared with his work.
ReplyDeleteAnd I’m glad you liked the piece. The privacy does add an extra layer, I agree. Interesting thought about a book of these - I’d worry about readers not attaching to my characters or following a story told in such an unattached way... but at the same time it does presents lot of interesting what if’s.