Paranoia of Suburbia

Candle light is the only illumination. Soft music plays with only the soft clacks of computer keys to keep a beat. The cold is enough to keep a chill but not quite enough to ruin the comfortable setting. It is late, but coffee is the only drink. Soft wind whispers at the window begging to come in, as if needing to be invited. It is so very lonely, ripping at my heart wishing that I could share my virtues. I refuse to step out into what most call civilization. For life outside my safe space is nothing more than regret. It is a wasteland of mindless indulgence for what we own but do not value. Who would accept someone who does not fall into a group, who lives and breathes for competition to conquer what we do not own. An outcast who wishes to live in captivity rather than sacrifice my life to ideals I do not believe suits better to me. This suburban living situation has been my neighborhood for only a couple of moons. It proves to be more peaceful then the home that preceded it. Those who inhabit this particular community do not seem to worry about the surroundings they do not control. Peace and tranquility is a gift I do not often receive. But hark, for the time is no longer late. The stir of those ready for the day is a disturbance compared to what was once a peaceful evening. The time reads differently than my home country. Time is a mysterious force I choose to follow rather than question. But what is odd, is that I swear a knock had placed itself upon my door. Do I answer this mysterious call, or ignore it in hopes to keep my peace? I believe myself to be a fool, for my curiosity is ahead of me. At the entrance to my home is a being so radiant, the full moon would bow in shame. Twinkling in the daylight, a star of this desolate suburbia. She is a neighbor, as her words convince. Concerned that she has not made the attempt to befriend me. Inviting her in seems like a suicide, a wish of dying with unconscious attempt. Her name is Mary, like in those stories of religion. But It turns out, I am someone who embraces the thought of death more than is rational. I want to know her, yearn for her attention. Something about this woman brings me to a loss of all rationality, and I want to flock to her simple words as a moth would to flame. Her hair is of the golden kind, the type that screams of sun and perfection. Her body shape is slim and heavenly, and she smells of the sweetest lavender. But fantasies must end, for she stands at my door with worried looks of concern from my silence. I give quick words of apology, and invite her into my humble residence. Only now do I realize the miserable state my house has declined to. The dishes remaining unwashed are skimming the surface of my desolate lifestyle. Luring her away from my mess and finding a place to sit in the living room, I begin to talk away the layers of despair and loneliness. Time flies when you genuinely feel you belong. It seems that everyday Mary visits me, sharing things that truly interest her. I feel more than willing to listen to her rambling, as I find it endearing. But through my happiness, I feel as if there is a dark cloud forming. Something seems off about how well the puzzle pieces fit. Her smell has shifted from pleasant to something I cannot recognize. As I desperately hope this will work,  I must keep in mind that the moon's rise will only bring the trouble I so desperately wish to avoid. My Mary would not appreciate the monster the night brings before the world. I feel the aggression rising in me, I must find a way to keep my Mary safe from myself. Though it will break my heart, she is an angel I will not bring down. Time has passed and I realize that my Mary is not who she says she is, but neither is, who I believe I am. Her smell is no longer pleasant. It burns as if her soul were on fire. My hair stands on edge thinking about it. She smiles at me, but it's a smile of pure malice. Her brightness no longer shines out of beauty, but out of pure fear of the dark itself. She knows my terrible secret. The terrible secret that haunts me until my dying days. She knows, oh how she knows. She laughs at me, knowing I am in no way a perfect human. Laughing and joking about my terrible secret. She is not the biblical Mary I know, and she is definitely not my Mary. The moon is fast approaching, and she still continues to mock me. I can feel it, even when she is not with me. I feel her eyes on me everywhere, and nowhere seems free of her sight. She doesn't visit daily, but I know she thinks of me, about my secrets. Anger arises in me. How could my precious Mary hate me so? Have I not given her the attention I so desperately craved? Had I not been kind to her? But alas, the night is fast approaching, the moon sparks it's joy. Bathed in the brightest of silver dripping like a waterfall of dreams. My soul yearns for the release it so desires. My aggravation holds out, but I feel the over boiling urge of hunger that a human may never know. My head spins out of pain, I know my time is fast approaching. My humanity will vanish just like it had last month, and every month before. But I hear that knocking again. The gentle tap at my door, the one my curiosity craves. I know it's Mary, she has come to taunt me. She comes to ridicule my less than human appearance. She yearns to call me a monster, a freak, an impostor to the world. I don't want to let her in, to see me and what I have become. My skin crawls with agony, growing and shrinking rapidly to accommodate my transformation. The sound of glass breaking is what stops the torture. I see my precious Mary, desperately trying to help me. She was not a deceitful lie. It was my own mind that could not accept myself. I am incapable of the love she so gave with grace. It doesn't matter now, even as she cries for me. I am deaf to her pleas. My hunger rises and she becomes a victim. My poor Mary, does anyone know? This is a peaceful neighborhood. No one knew I existed and no one will. To the one who gave me kindness in the peace of the world, you have become a murder in suburbia.