Stacy walked a fragile line. It was a precarious balance between her two worlds. Light and dark, right and wrong, battling for her soul.
She kept going, doing the work of living while she waited for the voices. Lights flashed, and a cop stepped from the squad car. She glanced into the shadows. She saw him lurking there, watching.
“What are you doing here?” the officer asked.
Stacy checked the darkness again but didn’t answer.
“Are you lost?” he tried again.
“Everything is black and white for you, isn’t it?” she asked.
“I only want to help you, my friend.”
“You’re not my buddy, cop. Hell, you’re acting like my father, and that isn’t a compliment.”
“Let’s get you home, somewhere safe,” he reached for her, touching her elbow.
“Safe? At home?” Stacy sniffed and twisted free from his grasp.
She felt the shadow figure smile, and she smiled in response. He was everywhere, always watching.
But he wasn’t the one she feared. He had threatened her for years and told her he would punish her if she did not behave. She lived in fear of making him angry and inflicting his punishment. She was small and delicate, and she bruised easily.
When she was nine, her mother died, a casualty of a stern hand too heavily applied. During the day, dark corners were her refuge, and the creature whispered secrets. He swore to protect her.
His white-gloved hand extended from his coal-black uniform.
Stacy hesitated, then descended into darkness.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer