Memories of The Dark

Contains mentions of Sexual Violence and Substance Abuse.

Every adult at some point in their lives is afraid of the dark. It starts when we first leave our parents' room for our own, where they tuck us into bed, reassure us that everything will be okay, and leave. The door is open just a crack so you can call for them. As soon as their footsteps grow quiet, you know something's not right; you can feel the presence under the bed, one you're sure will pull you under if you leave a limb hanging off the side. From the creaking noise of the closet to the shadows shifting in the dark corners, you bravely pull the covers over your head, your stuffie tucked under your arm, heart pounding in your chest as you fall asleep. When you wake the next morning, the sun chases the shadows away, and the smell of bacon and eggs fills the air. You rush to the kitchen, excited, where your father reads the paper and your mother makes breakfast. The family dog sits next to your chair, waiting for scraps. You climb up as your father hands you the comics, and you see just a flash of a child's face on the paper; you know them from school. After that, their face is on milk cartons and pasted everywhere; your parents keep you closer, hold your hand a little tighter, and always watch you. 

By the time we're teenagers, that fear is still there, just hidden in the back of our minds; adrenaline takes over, and we want to push boundaries and test our freedom. A familiar car honks outside. Your friends are there to pick you up for a Halloween party. You grab your coat and head for the door.

 "Be safe, honey," your mother calls. 

"Keep an eye on your drink," your father says as you hug them goodbye. 

You wave goodbye and rush out the door before they can change their minds. The party is almost overwhelming; the bass makes the walls shake, and it smells like musk, sweat, weed, and vomit. A group of teenagers sits around a table snorting something white; a voice in your head whispers, "Something isn't right." Before you can think too much about it, your friend is shoving a red plastic cup into your hand, something sweet and fruity. You take a sip; it's sweet like fruit punch. You want to ask what's in it, but no one can give you a straight answer. You take another sip, then another, feeling slightly buzzed, giggly, and flushed. Your friends pull you into the crowded living room to dance. Sweaty bodies press up against you as you dance with your friends. You close your eyes and let the buzz wash over you; it's intoxicating, and time feels like it slows down and speeds up at once. You feel a tap on your shoulder; you open your eyes to a pair of golden eyes, their face hidden behind a wolf mask. "Something isn't right," the voice whispers. They call your outfit cute and hand you another drink; you take it gratefully. You take a sip, then another and another, and the party blurs by. You wake up on the bathroom floor, head pounding, stomach twisting; a glass of water and some painkillers sit next to you, and a note from your parents tells you to clean up for breakfast. You take the painkillers, swallowing them down with the water before pushing yourself up. You feel a dull, throbbing ache between your legs. "Something isn't right," the voice whispers in your head. You take a shower, noticing the blood in your underwear. "Something isn't right," the voice whispers again. You finish getting cleaned up, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest. You join your parents for breakfast; the old family dog sits loyally beside your chair for scraps. Your father hands you the comics, still a little kid in his eyes; your mother sets a plate of food in front of you and ruffles your hair. You smile, pick up the comics, and catch a picture of a young woman in the newspaper; she had been drugged, Raped, and dumped in a ditch on her way back to her college dorms from a party. "Something isn't right," the voice whispers again. 

By the time we're adults, we still fear the dark, but not because we don't know what's in the dark, but because we know what is. We fear ourselves and each other; we avoid dark alleyways, stay in groups and crowds, go home by the time the street lights come on, don't take drinks from strangers, and watch what we wear and what we say. You know the statistics; you know why women choose the bear over the man. The men will say, "Not all men"; the women will say, "Prove it," and yet nothing is ever done or ever changes. Children fear the ghost under the bed, the creaking in the closet, the shadows in the room; you hide under the covers, your stuffie under your arm. As adults, we hold keys between our hands, carry pepper spray, take self-defense classes, and hope and pray you won't be another statistic. The fear turns to adrenaline, the adrenaline back to fear, a vicious cycle. When we have children of our own, we now understand the need to keep them close, safe, protected; their fear of the dark will be the first of many, if only it were the only thing they feared. With every generation, there is dread, and there is hope. We tuck our kids into bed, crack the door open, leave a light on so they feel safe, comfortable, protected. So that little voice in the back of their heads that whispers "Something's not right" may be quieter a little longer. There are many things to fear in the world, beautiful, terrifying things. We hold the memories of the dark in our hearts, in our heads, and in our hands.