The Painful Bright

Three days without sleep. Every night I've gone to bed with hope in my heart that tonight I would finally succumb to the vagaries of night, let everything slip into the shadows of my consciousness. But the memories keep me awake. Of me going with my Hello Kitty flashlight into my mother's room to look for a missing slipper, finding instead a strange man in leather leaning over her on the bed. Of her screaming at me to leave, throwing a patent leather heel at me as I slammed the door shut on myself. Of the blinding light of my flashlight seeping in under my eyelashes as I leaned my head against the wall, numb from the horror I'd just experienced.

And finally, of my mother telling me to keep it to myself. Or else.

My dad has tried to help me. Every night he sits with me for a while, making me a cup of milk and stroking my back as I sob. He thinks it's only the depression that eats away at my heart, and he says that when the light comes out in the morning, it will be all better.

But I fear the sun. I fear the horrible headaches it gives me as the ceiling turns from dark to light, another night of rest lost. I fear the blinding glow it gives the sidewalks and the dark floaters it smudges onto my eyes. I fear the way it gets into everything-- the crevices in the house, the places where I keep things hidden. My mother's face, guiltless and dark, ignoring my father's jokes and prattling. I fear her too.

But most of all, I fear what will happen if I pull back the curtain, and let the light in on her.