After Midnight

She couldn't sleep. There was a howling wind that scattered the earth into hiding. The soil retreated beneath the rocks, leaves dissipated from their trees, foxes cried, and the bats stayed inside. Nothing and nobody was able to sleep on a night like this. It was as if the world was consumed by envy and was finally taking its revenge upon any living being that got in its way. It was times like this when she thought it would be the end. She would die here, alone in her bed. In her mind, she had a picture of her life as it was: lonely, boring, and much blander than she had expected. There was a constant weight on her head and shoulders that she always credited to her lack of exercise when talking to others, but she knew it was her own mind that was destroying her. Her lack of control over the very thing that made her human. She believed it was cruel to have been born into a world and a body that only constantly seemed to betray her. Her whole life so far had seemed to be a series of very, very unfortunate events, and the future grew bleaker by the minute.

From gaining consciousness at the age of three, she was cursed with remembering every little detail about her life, and the past didn't shy away from reminding her of her most cringeworthy and regretful moments. She never felt like she belonged; she was weird and said strange things, made strange facial expressions, and didn't particularly like talking. She was quiet, and her family agreed that this was wrong, so they would force her into situations that would make her want to rip off her skin. Simple things like asking a stranger for help, going to the shops by herself, and being in public wearing clothes she did not feel comfortable in. Throughout her childhood, they had forced her constantly to do things that only made her want to never speak to them again. It's like she was never allowed to make her own decisions. Though she did learn a great deal about people, about the way they would react to someone quiet and unconventional. People who fit the conventions all had the same thought patterns; they were fuelled by judgment, and they loved it. They loved to tease and pry upon someone different; they seemed to get a thrill out of it because it made them look less messed up. She realised when talking to people that most of them didn't have much to say rather they were full of opinions and feelings about what they absorbed. It was obvious in the way they spoke and acted that their thoughts were not their own. To be a human is to be empathetic, original, and soulful, yet she was surrounded by passiveness, judgment, and ridicule. At least she spoke the truth, even if it did leave her isolated. Though she didn't mind being alone, she preferred it, but being surrounded by people who didn't understand you would eventually make what is real less obvious.

The window crashed open, spluttering bits of dirt and rain into her room. She got up to close it. The pressure of the wind fought back, and she began laughing at this unexpected human display of nature. It was like they were arm-wrestling—her and the wind. She managed to win and found herself standing solemnly in her dark room. The darkness consumed all that she saw and felt. Her ponderings had shown her all that her life wasn't. She knew she couldn't continue living the way she was. No one could. She had dreams of peace, travel, and love. That would not exist for her if she kept falling back into her negative ways: stagnation, isolation, and procrastination. She was a fool to her own body, betraying herself, and she needed to change desperately. So she ignored the surrounding darkness yet remained in it. This was her way of resisting and fighting against her urge to remain as she was. She stayed unconsumed by fear. She went over to her desk, pulled out a notebook and pen, and began to write. Her desk was cluttered with random papers and ceramics. She owned plenty of books that took up all the space on her shelves above. She wished one of them would fall on her and magically open to a page with the answers on it. She never knew what to do with her life. She craved guidance. With her pen and paper, she began to take notes. First, she wrote down her areas of weakness. She was antisocial, bad at communicating, and unable to form articulate sentences. That made her look and feel dumb. She continued writing as a looming presence entered her space. Her writing finger wiggled in shiver. Looking around her, her neck whipped rapidly, trying to see and catch whatever it was that sought her attention. There was nothing there. Well, nothing she could see anyway; she was in complete darkness after all.

She went back to writing, this time with the intention of change and a hope of becoming better. She thought of ideas and things she could do to improve her life to make it more full of passion, romance, and gratitude. She had always struggled with knowing what it was that she wanted to do as a career. The idea of choosing a job and staying at it for the rest of your life seemed too unnatural to her. Just as she tittered on her next word, which was to be a semblance of freedom, the window crashed open again, this time with a greater destructive force, which pushed her out of her chair. Had someone come in through the window? It certainly felt like it. She shivered again and felt a brush to her arm. She wasn't sure if it was the wind or if someone or something was keeping her company in the darkness. Through hyperventilating breaths, she said 'who's there?' quietly and unconfidently, feeling embarrassed in her fear that she felt she had to speak to the darkness. It was just the wind and nothing more. There was no way a person could fit through her window or push it open with that much force. It was just the wind, just the wind, she kept reassuring herself.

Her breathing was heavy now, and she was cautious of moving, afraid that whatever she was thinking that could be with her was, in fact, true. However, none of it made sense, and she cursed her mind for making her riddled with fear. That was the funny thing about the human mind; it liked to play tricks. She thought back to a story she heard online about a man who's foot was impaled by an arrow, he had hard shoes on and was writhing in agony, claiming it was the worst pain he had ever felt in his life but when the doctors managed to cut off his shoe they discovered that there was no blood and that the arrow had actually gone between his big and second toe. There wasn't even a scratch, yet the pain he had felt was real. Perhaps she was just thinking of what was there and feeling scared by the possibility, not of reality. She reassured herself and sat back at her desk. What she was doing was important; it was quite life-changing. This surge of motivation was rare, and she had to write it all down so she would remember in the morning what it was she needed to do to make a life for herself. She found that as she got older, time got quicker, and every day she feared she was running out.

Thinking and writing about who she could be was rewarding, and there was hope attached to the possibility that what was written out before her could be true; it could be her reality in just a few years. She clung to this feeling of freedom. She continued to write and had nearly completed a page, the wind still howling beside her at her open window. This time, her whole body shivered, and her chest squeezed in writhing pain. She let out a groan and scream. 'Please stop,' she said aloud, now knowing that the presence she felt really was there. She kept looking around, straining her neck in a frantic jolt. 'Just stop,' she kept saying in whispers of fear, her breathing gaining speed and her begging now the only noise in the room. The wind had died down significantly, and noticing this, she began to calm, but little did she know it was only to allow the shadow to be heard. It stepped forward out of the darkness, revealing itself to her. It was strange. The shadow was not visible; it was dark like the darkness, yet its presence was as clear as day, and it could be seen clearly. It messed up the mind. How could something be invisible yet wholly seen? She could not comprehend what it was she was looking at. It was like she was seeing her subconscious in the flesh.

'Hello?' she said, her voice riddled with fear, staring at the thing. It was looking at her with no eyes; she felt it penetrate her skin and peel open her mind. 'Whatever you are trying to do will not work,' it said. Its voice was breathless and strained, like every word was painful. 'What do you mean?' she said, still shaking at the terror before her. 'You cannot change your life, you are too late,' it said menacingly. 'You're wrong,' she said, gaining some confidence. She was still confused and unsure if she was even talking to anyone. 'What are you?' she said. 'I am you,' it responded, 'I am your fears, I am your truth, I am your reality.' It said, continuing. 'I am here to tell you that you cannot change, you never will, and I think you know that,' it said now sounding like her, in her voice. 'What?' she let out quietly, it was almost like a laugh of disbelief. But maybe it was right. She had this revelation and surge of motivation almost every month, and she would last just a few days on this new routine, but always found it pointless and too ambitious. On day three, she realised that her hard work was meaningless in the whole scheme of things and that she would regret not living in comfort while it was there. The shadow was right; it seemed to know her better than she knew herself. It was a vision of her mind.

She ripped up her pages, mocking their insincerity, laughing at her lame attempt at a change that deep down she knew she didn't want. She wasn't lazy; rather, just sullen at the reality of the world, the dirt on the ground, and the dirt from people's mouths. The misuse of irony and blatant discrimination. The effort it took to do anything these days, like get a job or travel to a different country. It all took too much lame interaction and unpleasant movement. She found peace in the truly peaceful, the hidden embers in her garden, and the simple walks by the river. There was no joy in the difficult. She climbed back into bed, no longer tortured by the flames of ambition that were typical of a good life; she finally knew what she wanted, and it wasn't change but familiarity. She returned to her sleep the wind blowing in an accepting embrace. She finally knew what she wanted.