IN THE DARK

IN THE DARK

By Randy Romero

            The face appears every night outside my bedroom window; grotesque, its features twisted and distorted. A face of sheer malevolence–and rage. Raw, unfiltered, unadulterated rage. Such anger, such hatred. Its rage is palpable. I can feel the venom coursing through its veins. I can feel the fire burning in the pit of its soul.

            In the dark, I can see nothing but that hideous face and the glowing eyes of the demon staring back at me.

In the dark, I also hear the noises of the night. Distant sirens. The rumble of a passing train. The occasional car cruising down the block. A drunken neighbor stumbling home from the bar after last call. Noises that remind me I’m not alone.

But in the dark, with nothing but that face looming over me, I couldn’t feel more alone and afraid.

            In the dark, the fear consumes me.

            In the dark, I have no control.

            In the dark, I’m utterly powerless.

         But I never run. I never scream. I don’t even make a sound. I don’t approach it or attempt to reason with it. I tried closing the blinds one night, but I could still feel its eyes glaring at me.

            I don’t know what it wants. Its motives remain a mystery. But I know that one day it will consume me entirely, if it hasn’t already. I cannot ignore its presence. This entity. This demon.

            I cannot ignore the face outside my window. For it is not outside my window at all. The face is merely a reflection in the glass.