"Night is, as it were, a hand placed on our soul. At certain hideous and solemn hours we feel that which is beyond the wall of the tomb encroaching on us."
- Victor Hugo, The Man Who Laughs
I awake at two thirty in the morning, heart racing, sweat soaked, and in a panic. I had not been dreaming, or at least I do not remember a dream. But I am convinced she is there, knocking at my door.
"I will not let you go!" she says.
Within just a few minutes as my vision clears from sleep and the vortex of a rapid rise from my bed slows and the room once again stands still, I realize that this is not so. There is no one at my door. No camper upon my steps. No way She could ever find me even in this technologically advanced world where information on anyone and everyone is just a Google away. I lie back down and quickly succumb to deep exhausted sleep.
At three thirty, it happens again.
Thump! Thump! Thump! this time it is not She standing before me. It is her minion, side-kick is an altogether too comical and flighty description. It is He, a handsome rugged man when viewed in the physical; a stumpy, imperfect amalgamation of stubborness and pride when viewing the soul. His thick middle finger extended from the stumpy, thick muscled fist is pounding my chest. The thumping I took for a knock at my door was in reality the echo caused by this grotesque finger tapping firmly on my chest. There are two things that haunt me. This finger and then the face, stoic but for the turned down mouth as if He were going to weep. This face comprised of eyes that pierce me through my adam's apple, a fear inducing, projectile. Thoughts are projectiles and his were megaton bombs, their whistle and sonic boom make me able to understand his message before the words proceed from his twisted mouth.
"I am your father. You can't change that!" Thump, thump, thump.