Nights

Nights were the worst.

With his room enveloped by darkness his imagination took over. Each sound became amplified. Each shadow became a creature from Stephen King's fertile imagination. Sleep came slowly if it ever came at all.

Death haunted his subconscious. Debates raged inside his head.

God exists.

There is no God.

The soul survives the body.

When you are dead, you become worm food nothing else.

These flashing thoughts would cause his stomach to form knots that Houdini himself could not escape. His breath would catch in his throat while his chest felt like he was attempting to breath on Jupiter.

Panic would ensue.

Off the bed he would pace the house. Upstairs, downstairs and back again, roaming the hallways of his existence searching for peace finding only empty space.

The television beckons and he sits on the floor legs crossed like he was seven years old again watching cartoons on Saturday morning. The channels dance across his vision random samples of the midnight world. Filled with exercise videos, music collections and the latest greatest slicing and dicing tools for the kitchen. Nothing catches his eye. Nothing offers comfort to his tortured soul.

He looks at the phone but there is no one to call. No one who understands his late night fears.

TV off he roams the halls once again. Not unlike Scrooge waiting for his next ghostly visitor. He stops before a shelf of old novels. His fingers trace along the titles but tonight even the written word fails to offer comfort.

Back upstairs he sits in his rocker staring out into the night. Watching the wind create new and wonderful patterns as leaves are blown around the yard.

Chaos.

Maybe.

He opens his closet and pulls a dusty box down from the top shelf. Removing the lid his eyes roam across the contents.

Photos of his parents.

Letters from old girlfriends.

His high school ring.

Bookmarks and diaries.

Dusty memories all.

Buried beneath the memorabilia an old friend. Pickles the last remnant of his innocent child hood. A calico cat given to him by his great-grandmother, stained, faded and missing an eye Pickles was for him comfort.

Gently he removes Pickles from his decades old bed and cradles him in his arms. The scents of childhood still inhabit the fur barely.

He shuffles back to his rocking chair and curls up with a sigh. With Pickles back he soon drifts off into a sleep uninterrupted by visions of darkness.