THE WITCHING HOUR

The moon shines on my face tonight. I open my window and let the April breeze take me away as I shut my eyes. My knees drop, and I plop down to the bed below. I inhale my last voluntary breath in attempt at inviting peace over for the night.

A lump begins to swell and expand as it travels down my throat. I start fighting with my darkening bed sheets for comfort. I tear and pull them apart, and blame them for my tightening anxiety. I give it up and look once more out the window. I lay in my panic hoping this too will pass, while feeling my heart heaving to my mind.

Then there’s a knock at front door, and I break as it creaks open. I hear my mother welcome my stepdad home. It’s that time of night. Their voices seep, and my tears stream. I desperately miss sleep, but my body won’t rest anymore at this witching hour.

Continuously, my parents pace through the house to the rhythm of their addictions. My stepdad’s stomp shakes the house. His sound is followed by the foul smell of cheap cologne and cheaper beer. My mom is quicker and quieter; her scent is worst. She smells warm and familiar, but sourly tainted by a lingering stench of ash and ethanol. Her effluvium emanates her drink of choice tonight.

I hear her booming with happiness, while matching the volume of the record player to her drunkenness. I grab my pillow and hide underneath. I recite a prayer for the noises, scents, and fears to disappear. Their laughter echoes: my head shouts. They’re happy drunk, and leaving me alone tonight. I should be grateful. I want the music to go away, but I need to stop being so particular. Mom is right. My demanding attitude is the issue.

A lifetime passes by, and still the same song plays. My door and I groan as I rotate the knob. If I open this door, I will be given hell worse than this current one. Give up and go back to bed. There is not point fighting and it’s my fault for not falling asleep earlier.