I'm afraid. I'm afraid that as I get older, birthdays will start to lose meaning. My father, and most of his friends, turn 50 this year. Do they care? Does it mean anything to them? Will my annual renaissances start to blur and run together, watercolors on an ever-shrinking blank page? Or will I continue to feel each pulse, each sweeping revolution of the hand? I can't tell for which I'm hoping anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Will I make it to 50? A few birthdays ago, I didn't think so. I didn't want to. I didn't want to make it to 25. What changed? Me?

Last time I saw my grandmother, she said she didn't want to hit triple digits (keep me off the machines). She married my grandfather in 1969. I wonder how he feels about that? Will he be the one to sign the forms for her? How many birthdays until that happens? I think she's 78 deep already.

In November, I'll hit the post again, pass go, collect my 200. Maybe I'll know then.

It’s him. He’s here for me again.

I remember that night, so long ago, when he first came. It was dark, and quiet, and all the things that upset the primal beast deep inside the souls of men and women. I was sitting in front of the fire mommy built, reading Curious George, wearing my favorite shoes, little white ballet flats. There was a knock on the door. Mommy said, “Hide, darling, hide in the closet.” And when I didn’t respond, she snapped at me. “Now!”

So I hid, and I watched. I watched as mommy walked towards the door, watched as she started to open it, and watched as he kicked it open, trapping mommy under the door. I watched, evan as he, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, said something, whispered in mommy’s ear. And still I watched, now in horror, as his arm became elongated, narrow, tapered. And I watched... I watched as he reached down and impaled my mother's head through her open, screaming mouth.

And now he's back, and I know I'm in hell already. So I lock myself in the bathroom, open the medicine cabinet, and take the sleeping pills. One, two three, four. I keep swallowing them down, so eager to escape my reality, keep swallowing them, until I can't anymore. As I fade into blackness, I hear his sweet, cloying voice.

"See you in the next world, bitch."

#Horror #Fantasy

Storm clouds.

Dark grey.

Sad, scared

And alone.

Living with depression

And anxiety

Ain't fun.

Joy gives me shivers

Up and down my spine.

A hot cup of tea,

A good, warm hug,

A big, fuzzy dog.

What the world needs now,

Is love.

Love

Gives me joy.

Joy

Gives me shivers.

I love him.

He fills me

to the brim with an unending desire

to scream, to laugh, to weep.

He lights a fire inside of me,

warming the very core of my being.

I love him.