What are you afraid of?

“Everything,” I tell people.

Tonight, I came home from work and hopped in the shower.  Without warning, my imagination grabbed me by the throat.  I submerged my head in the steaming hot spray of the showerhead.  When I emerged, I was terrified to open my eyes.  Somehow, I thought that the Rake or Slenderman or any of a million other creepy-ass monsters could be waiting for me in the bathroom, or in the tub.  I felt my skin crawl in anticipation of an attack.  I forced my eyes open – nothing.  Sigh of relief, right?  Haha, guess again.  I was terrified to close them.  Or to turn my back on the shower curtain.  I spent a good couple of minutes in terror of what might be lurking just out of sight.  

I found myself trying to believe in the existence of heroes who could save me.  With one exception, faith in others has never been my style.  I wished for a weapon.  One of my household’s many knives (tactical, kitchen, or other).  My asp.  Even the Sig Sauer in the safe.  It’s impossible to go armed all the time, though.

I envisioned demon teeth sinking into my flesh.  My imagination told me how I would react. THAT was what saved me.  

I remember the last time I got hurt.  Every time I got hurt.  Those phantom fangs sink into me, and it hurts, and it hurts, and it sparks that all-consuming need to hurt it back.  If the monster had a million eyes, I’d gouge out every one.  If it had none, I’d give it new holes to breathe from.  My slide toward oblivion would be lubricated with its fucking blood.

Gods, I hate being crazy. 

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