You’re there every time I open my eyes, sweating and out of breath, standing at the side of the bed naked and scared, a silhouette against the palest of moonlight. Your breathing wakes me, the heaving of your chest and the frantic look in your eyes that I can’t see, but feel staring down at me. Not a word, not a gesture, nothing except another unsuccessful attempt to make it through the night without all the fear. But the nights are long, one after another, and making it is out of the question. Sleep is out of the question. Who can sleep, with you standing there over them like that? Who can roll over and close their eyes against so much unknown?
I roll back the covers, wishing now that the fan was pointed in another direction, wishing now that it hadn’t felt so good against the side of my face as I fell asleep, hoping that you wouldn’t show up, wishing now that for once there would be something out there, something to see other than more night, more darkness and shadows blended together into the color of fear, something, anything, anything that will explain why you drag me out of bed each night to stare out the window with you. I could hate you for this. I could hate you for how tired I am, for standing over me like you do, wet with fear. I could hate you for picking me or for counting on me or for a hundred other reasons that I’m too tired now to think about. I could hate you for just about everything, except that I can’t. I can’t because looking out the window, my eyes slowly adjusting to the moonlight, my ear turned out slightly, trying desperately to catch some sound, I understand your fear. Worse, I know your fear. The fan may blow against my back, but it is that cold unknown blowing now against my face that forces me to draw up inside myself, as the two of us, side by side, stare out at nothing.