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Weekly Contest #351
You cannot see me. Some do not know I am here. Some fear me. Some wish to embrace me. But I am here, waiting. Until I have to come. Until you must be taken, whether I want to or not. My dear Abrina, for example. She cries for me, nightly. Lying on her bed, carpet, or cold, hard tiles. I listen, though she does not know. I cry for her, covering my face, lest anyone see. I have a reputation, one which mortals have taken and run with. I am often pictured, hard and terrifying, seen as something to push away. I understand why. “Abrina, are you...
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