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Last night, in a rude distraction from sleep I leaned against the wall beside my bed, the cool surface a comfort, just as much as the pile of blankets over my lap and woven in between my arms and head as a pillow. Occupying themselves in the slight wind, my curtains made shadows from the street light against my desk, climbing my chair with their black fingers and straining towards me. The white surfaces of my bedroom had been bleached washed in my boredom of a day off, and it was comforting how it all smelled like a fresh hotel room, with crisp sheets, though the air circulating in the wake of the sluggish ceiling fan could have been cooler. My cat had managed to manipulate my book of "The Teller of Tales" from the desktop about five minutes ago, and it landed with a decidedly muffled thump as the obese animal went down with it.

I never really understood why domestic animals like Pablo were still so nocturnal. I almost long to follow their path and roam at night, rather than in the day. It seems the murky evening hides many things, and yet liberates many others. Despite the years that have passed my pining for darkness has not wavered, though my original intentions and motivations have far disappeared.

The curtains made darkness, closing in on this prison of the place. The hall threatened to swallow me from behind, into its gaping, dripping, sallow deep mouth, and yet, I wanted more than anything to retreat to the place there, where I could hide from what was before me. The one source of light lit the one thing in the world I never wanted to see. My assailant was familiar, and terrifying, yet my legs felt a pull to remain where I stood. I knew what was coming; yet my feet were strapped like anvils to this spot in the room.

I saw her face, sweating the oil floating above here pores, smoldering in the white-hot light of the 100-watt light bulb, only half covered by the dusty shade. The blue lamp was my salvation in a way; it was what survived, and it kept the plummet into darkness at bay. The cobalt surface had a polished, glossy coat un-scuffed by the world, as if it had come from the factory only last week. If that light disappeared, I could run, stumbling away, but if it was there, I wouldn't be left to search in the dark, unable to see what was hurtling toward me.

The stand offs never lasted long; we both knew I'd never lift a hand to start the brawl; in fact I'd be silent, no crying out, no pleas. I knew the routine. If instigation was on my part, it'd only

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