Me, My Prussian Blues (and That Guy With the Horns)

Tonight I didn't wake up at 1 a.m.

I stayed up until 1 a.m.

It's not something I'm proud of. Sleep is looked forward to as the best part of my day. But there are things I do first... and these things whisper petty and virulent encouragement to Time, egging it into a sprint. And soon... it is 1 a.m.

During the winter, I get up at some predetermined time deep into the night and wander downstairs for a glass of orange juice. An unwelcome habit, and not exactly beneficial to my morning breath... but the more I try and convince myself not to venture into the night and the cold and the dark, the more determined I am to do just that.

Tonight the argument was fierce. Just the other day, I watched a movie called The Signs—written by the same man who wrote The Sixth Sense—which I enjoyed. Hard to say the same for the rest of the family, but yes, I admit I enjoyed it.

Tonight...tonight I was afraid to go downstairs. It was so dark...and I had to pass some more than mildly creepy rooms and mysterious crevices. Usually it doesn't bother me because I'm in a daze of sleep with only the objective of eliminating a glass of orange juice on my mind.

Tonight there were other things to consider. But I don't want to fear the unknown...it holds me back. I don't want to feel the sting of fear against something I know logically isn't a problem. The dark hallway, the glowing clock, the caged off room, the humming vents...there was a single device that could make all this unnecessary precaution go away, and that was the artificial fluorescent lighting.

I will not depend on man's fear-inspired trinkets.

And I asked myself a biting question: What are you afraid of?

Well...I'm afraid of the little girl with the long black hair that lives in the basement and eats rats.
I'm afraid of the little blue Asian that crawls around on the floor looking deformed.
I'm afraid of the woman in the porcelain mask that writes messages in blood on the glass door.
I'm afraid of the men in the black suits with the white faces that surround the house and pretend to be angels.
I'm afraid of the dead people from The Sixth Sense that don't usually mean any harm but are hysteric in their supernatural state.
I'm afraid of the aliens from The Signs that change the color of their skin so we can't see them and how long their claws are.

Then I asked myself if these fears are legitimate.
There aren't any rats to feed the little girl in the basement.
If the Asian is so deformed he can't walk, I bet I could kick his ass.
...Whose blood is that lady writing in?
The men in the black suits don't actually come in the house; they just look creepy outside it.
I'm pretty sure no one's died here and the ghosts can't be attracted to any extraordinary spiritual pressure in the house.
The aliens' weakness is water, which I'm almost positive we have a large supply of in the kitchen.

The excuse for the lady with the mask was weak...but if that's it, surely I can handle a short trip downstairs.

And the decision was made. I will venture into the abyss. Not so much for the orange juice, but to prove I don't fear the darkness or the killers we created by ourselves.

The air in the house circulated frigidly beyond my room, but I couldn't risk wearing my turtle slippers because someone might hear my shuffling... and that's a serious "wtf" moment waiting to happen.

I forced myself to ignore the caged room, couldn't help but glance at the glowing clock face, tried to look fearless...
The filter to the fish tank whirred noisily in the silence.

Glass: obtained.
Ice: check.
Orange juice: check.

I sat on the counter. But with my back to the hallway, I felt exposed. Ah well. There's no truly safe position.

Orange juice: eliminated.

And back up stairs I go.

--