It Can Hurt Me

He can’t see it. I can’t let him see it. If he sees it, it’s real. If it’s real, it can hurt me. It’s there, lurking in every shadow, waiting for me to feed it. Waiting until it can stand the light of day, but even I can no longer stand the light.

He rises with the sun, and I cower under the covers hiding from the rays. And from the thing that haunts the edge of my vision. He cannot see it there, in the shadows, but I can. I know it is there, always. Even when daylight fills the room, dousing the shadows in every corner, I know it is there. It crouches, waiting. Waiting for me to acknowledge it. Waiting for me to tell him about it.

As the day wears on, and the sun makes its slow trudge across the sky, the shadows return. Its eyes begin to form then. Large, impossibly round eyes stare out at me from the shadows, unblinking. For now, it only stares. I know what it wants of course. It wants to be fed, it wants to be made stronger. But I cannot do that now. Not while he is here. Not where he can see. He cannot see it. So in the shadows it remains, watching. Watching as I try to ignore it. Watching as I attempt to hide it from his view.

The shadows grow longer then, more insistent. But I can do nothing to satiate them now. Not here, where he might see. So I wait for him to leave, or to sleep. It grows stronger then, demanding my attention. When I can no longer ignore it, when I feel myself become the very thing that haunts me, I slip into the shadows. I feel it envelop me, and welcome me like an old friend. But all I feel is cold fear. The dark is not warm, but I am determined to see this thing through. To give my monster life. I begin to feed it.

It does not come naturally, this performance. Slowly, I inhale the shadows in which it hides. Now, in here, we can see each other clearly. I rework the shadows, give them new form, and watch it grow stronger as I nurture it. Sometimes, I feel joy for this thing I have created. But always, when the light returns, I begin to fear it again. I must see it grow. I must see it become stronger. Real. Tangible. In the dark, I can pretend it will never hurt me. In the dark, I can pretend it is not real. So I feed it. And in it, I find new purpose. New fear.

Soon, the dark begins to recede, night giving way to day. I run from it then. Afraid of this thing I have created. Afraid that maybe this is the day he will see it. I slip under the covers then, intent to hide away from the light. He wakes from peaceful sleep, unaware of the thing hiding in our home. Again, he does not see it. I exhale a sigh of relief, and my lungs are filled with a new fear. He will never see it. It will never hurt me. This thing I have made will die with me. Every silent dream now a shrieking nightmare.

When my strength returns, I seek him out. He must see it. I must make him see it. It will hurt me either way. There are shadows everywhere in this house. It is not hard to find those eyes, so like an owl, staring out at me. And I see it then. Different from before. It does not have a body, not yet. But it has the idea of one. A mere suggestion of something real. Something tangible. It crouches in the shadow beside him. Before I can speak, and reveal it to him, it lifts a claw. The claw I must have given it last night. And it scratches just the tip of a nail along the wall, the sound barely audible. He does not hear it.

I beg him to see it, to hear what it can now do. But he does not see it. He does not hear it. I tell him about it then. Hoping that the knowledge of the thing will reveal it to him. I tell him of my secret ministrations. Of what I have created. But I do not know what I have created, not really. I do not know its form. I do not understand its purpose. Still, he does not see it. But now, he wants to see it. I tell him it can hurt me, and he tells me he can protect me. I do not believe him. But I fear it a little less.

When night comes again, and shadows overtake the room, I begin my work anew. I do not run from it tonight. I do not attempt to ignore it. I stride towards it with new purpose. One I have not known before. It has been waiting for this. Tonight, I am determined. I know the form it must take. Its proper form. It speaks to me as I work, and I begin to understand it better. I let him stay to watch me. Still, he does not see it. Does not understand its shape, or its purpose. But I do. Now I understand.

The sun rises, and it must be ready. I must be ready. The shadows begin to dissipate, and it recoils from the light. Or is it I that recoils? We are not ready. I am not ready. He tells me it is time. That there is no more I can do for it. It is complete. It is ready. But only yesterday, it could not exist in the light. Even then, it could hurt me. Yesterday, it could not exist under his gaze. But here it is, standing under his scrutiny. He can see it. It doesn’t hurt me. And so, I push it into the light.

It does not cower. It does not shield itself, or attempt to flee back into the shadows. They can all see it now. And still, it does not hurt me. I look to the shadows, and find no sentry there. No longer does my creation haunt me. But the darkness feel too thin. Too empty. I have grown accustomed to this spectral company. One by one, I close the blinds and douse the light. I step into the dark and begin to work.