Raise Hell

When I was young, I used to be afraid of the dark.

I'd awake in a stupor of sweat and horror; a mind filled to the brim with fantastical images of facial constructions that resembled decay and disfiguration. My father would have to shake me and caress my brow and cheek, trying to calm me from the horrors that resided only in the depths of my mental cavity. Yet they clung to me, clawing through my veins with an incredible ferocity to which most parents would seek out the guidance of a doctor.

The lower portions of my bed needed to be scanned.
My closet could not be ignored or opened.
Two night-lights were needed instead of one, and that of every curtain within my room had to be firmly closed.

It was a strenuous act that most would consider foolish; would tell me to just grow up and get over irrational, childish fears produced by nothing.

Help me

Yet my father never did such a thing. Instead, he consoled me; held me close and stroked my hair. He hushed me, rocked me, and allowed me to cry into his chest until the sobs became muffled whimpers and the whimpers turned to exhausted breathing of final rest.

This happened every single night.

As I grew, they did not truly go away. I ended up scheduling a psychiatrist that led to me releasing all the pent up night terrors and describing in detail all to which I remembered. I never forgot any of them.

It's coming

By the end of my fifth session I was prescribed medication which dulled my mind enough at night to allow me to have nothing creep inside. No nightmares, but no dreams either. Just blackness that went and returned when my eyes closed then reopened as the sunlight said 'Good morning'.

But I never knew, I never once believed that it would have been more.

For nightmares were nightmares.

And monsters are definitely were not real.