Sincerely, Jennifer x

Every now and again, the door begins to open. 

I pray, and I beg. I weep until there is nothing left, hoping and wishing that it will close, and falling to the floor in exhausted relief when it does, but that never lasts for long. 

The door begins to open again. I can see the darkness drenching the room, and so I close my eyes and fall against it, feeling the insistent fury of the night pushing through. 

This is how my nightmares always begin. 

For as long as I can remember, and probably long before that, there has been a door. 

Light leaks under from the outside, but I can’t trust it. There’s something out there, and if it were to find me, everything will end. 

I can see a small girl’s slippers gently padding back and forth beyond the door, and behind her, where I’m sure she cannot see is the shadow. 

“Just let me have a peek.” The shadow begins to speak. I shake, splintering and shuddering as the door fights against my might, desperate to drown me in all that it knows. 

The little girl is dancing. Her small slippers are tapping and twirling in the light, and she believes, with such certainty, that the light will keep her safe. 

I cannot keep her safe, and it aches. What she will become burrows into my chest like a knife, twisting and tormenting as I tumble down, falling forever into the huge and hungry arms of darkness. 

There are nails rapping against the wood. Tapping a rhythm I know, but cannot dance to. I know it so well, and I know what I am expected to do. My arms begin to itch, and the shadow starts to speak again. 

“Let me have a little peek.” She doesn’t know, but I know more than I care to. 

My arms begin to itch, and the shadow scratches from the inside. Long, filthy nails tearing me to ribbons. I am blood and broken skin, but still the door rattles and the shadow reaffirms its demands. 

“Just a little peek.” 

When I was a little girl, Mother took me to a big building and I drew pictures while a man in a coat asked me about night time. 

“It’s normal for children her age to have nightmares.” He whispered to Mother as she wrapped a lock of my hair around her finger. The crayons came to life in my hands, and I drew a new world, with happy days and peaceful nights. “I’m sure the accidents will clear up soon, it’s nothing to worry about.” Somehow, the shadow found his way into the picture, poisoning the crayons and crafting a space for himself as Mother’s absent minded twiddling became an insistent tug. “It’s just a phase.” 

I yelped and Mother remembered herself. We left the hospital in a hurry, my picture half coloured and her with answers that seemed to satisfy her.

I know, but I don’t. That’s what I tell the mirror sometimes in the mornings, when there are flashes, such familiar moments that long to find me.

An itching, and a song that seems so familiar.  

I know, but I don’t. Something is within me, and I cannot let it escape. Something is wrong with me but I cannot look. 

The door begins to shake, and I throw myself against the cold wood, scratching at the frame and leaning against it until there is stillness again. 

I am twenty seven, but I am six. I know, but I don’t.

I hold the door closed, but I look underneath. The small tiny window between the door and the carpet, flooded with light.  

I can see the little girl’s slippers under the door, shuffling from one foot to the other and mumbling things to herself. She keeps talking, and that’s good. It’s all nonsense, and that’s good. If she keeps talking, she can’t think, and if she can’t think, she can’t remember, and if she can’t remember… 

If I keep the door shut, everything will be fine. 

“Please open the door.” She whispers, but I cannot. 

She must suffer with the shadow. Her tears pool and puddle in the carpet, and she scratches with frightened fingers, her playful dancing becoming a trembling tornado as she tries to run. 

“Please open the door… I’m scared.” I know she is, but what am I? 

The door must stay shut. I don’t care that she’s scared. I’m scared. I’ve always been scared. She isn’t special. 

The door must stay shut. 

I can see the shadow sizing her up through the small gap under the door, and I can see the shadow slashing me up before my eyes. 

I think about the world we built with crayons as the door begins to open. Her little legs begin to dance, and she hums a familiar song, because she remembers, and as I draw something new with my blood, the shadow stares, sharing a small smile with us both. 

“I can see that you remember, little one.” He whispers, smoky, calloused fingers tangle in my curls until they are tugged, but I stay silent, keeping my eyes low as my arms begin to itch. “And you still draw such beautiful things.” The lines linger as my nails scorch my scratches into my skin, and the door slowly opens, as I knew it must.