“You can’t lock me in here,” she shouts.
I laugh at her through the glass, then type on my phone.
I will and I can. You will stay here until you find a reason to care enough not to leave.
I blow her a kiss through the air and sit on the railing, lifting my hand and flipping my middle finger at her.
She slams her palms against the glass. “Judas!”
I ignore her. I jump back onto my balcony and walk into my bedroom.
She will stay here. One way or another.
My eyes stay closed as I lie in bed, sinking into the sheets. Small points of light glow behind my eyelids, though I have no idea where they come from. Every light in the room is off, leaving it completely dark.
For a long time, I slept with the light on. For a long time, I had been afraid of the dark. I thought someone hid in the shadows, watching me and waiting. But as I grew older and slid deeper into my teenage years, I learned the truth.
The only thing you should be afraid of is people.
Dark can’t hurt you. What comes out of it can.
And it did.
And it all started in March 2005. When I was just seven years old.
2005.
I sat on the sofa with my legs tucked under me, the glow of the television washing the room in blue. The volume was too loud. Mom stood behind me, telling me to turn it off. She knew the news would turn into nightmares and make me wet the bed at night, but I stayed glued to the screen anyway. I wanted to be grown up. I wanted to prove I could handle things meant for adults.
The anchor’s voice was coming through, almost bored.
“Last night, bodies were found inside a family home in San Diego. Detectives confirmed the scene is connected to a previous case. Here is what the profiler has to say.”
The screen changed. A woman with black hair and red lipstick stared into the camera, her eyes blinking slowly as she spoke.
“We believe the killer is male, mid-twenties. He is calculated and precise,”she said.“We suspect he works for a delivery or cable company. When he is invited in, he makes his victims comfortable while he watches them. He kills the husband first, while the wife is forced to...”
The television went black.
Mom snatched the remote and jabbed the button harder than was necessary.
“Judas,” she said. “I told you you can’t watch this.”
She shoved a plate with a ham and cheese sandwich into my hands. The crusts were gone, just the soft white bread, the way I liked it.
“But Mom,” I started.
She lifted the sandwich and pressed it closer to my mouth.
“Eat.”
Before I could argue again, the doorbell rang.
Mom stiffened. Then she hurried down the hallway toward the front door.
I took one bite. The cheese stuck to the roof of my mouth as the door opened. A man stepped inside with her, and the door closed behind them.
He didn’t see me.
