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love (n.) -an intense affection for another person based on personal or familial ties
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ON nights like this, she wishes it would all end.

She curls into a makeshift ball, occupying the corner of the mattress with two old pillows beneath her head and a thin blanket to cover her frail body. It is a dull evening. Boredom fills her momentarily before her eyes droop to accommodate the exhaustion that floods her.

Hyperaware of her surroundings, she listens to the noises that echo quietly in her ears. The creatures outside gather around her room in order to play a tune of sounds and she feels a dose of reverence towards the insects for keeping her company.

Her midnight hair flourishes around her in a halo, spilling across the silky red cushions. Without realizing, she grasps onto her fingers and toys with the hangnail that clings to her thumb. She accepts the dull ache that possesses her, chipping away at the flesh until a sprinkle of blood tickles her skin.

Her room is relatively dark, with only the reflection of the moonlight from the autumn sky shining a dim glow into the space. The moon's power over the rest of the twilight azure is admirable to her. It is the brightest thing twinkling in the darkness. The serene energy that radiates from it is complimented by the blaze of the sun; the moon's soul mate. It is this alluring thought that graces her broken mind. The power of love. Both the weak and the strong wish to have some of the fortitude the moon carries.

She exhales a heavy breath into the empty space, removing her gaze from the sanguine image. Her eyes strain to see anything around her, but she is able to make out a little more than the shadows.

Light suddenly travels in from the hallway through a slit along the bottom of her broken bedroom door. Deciding to simply ignore the change, she focuses her attention on the croaking ceiling fan whose white paint was slowly beginning to chip away. Boredom now transforms into a blue funk as she watches as the lonely blades spin, reminding her that she, herself, is alone in more ways than one.

Sleep never comes easily to her during a night such as this one, especially when the front door of the house squeaks perpetually every time someone opens or closes it. Ominous banging and loud voices make their way to her her room all of the time. The noises that reverberate in and out of the small home cloud her head, not allowing her a moment to shut her eyes peacefully.

She is a light sleeper and one small disturbance is enough to knock the slumber out of her system. Usually the sleeping pills does its job but they've been disappearing from the medicine cabinet as of late. Either way, the pills can't fully control what happens in her brain.

She hates the places her mind travels to, but it is all unavoidable. Laying down in the darkness amplifies her worry. Suddenly, her eyes deceive her into thinking that someone is next to her bedpost. Their hands creep under the sheets, reaching towards her body. Clammy and rough fingers pry their way up and up. Without realizing, her breathing becomes shallow and choppy just by these thoughts. The room is spinning. The walls are closing in. The air is getting thin.

But, as she continues to look around the dark room and realizes nothing is wrong, her breathing gradually slows to calm exhales. It was a hallucination.

'I'm alone. No one is going to bother me. Everything's going to be okay.' She promises herself.

That is, until she heard it.

Saliva begins to gather in the back of her throat and her pupils slowly dilate. The familiar feeling of panic possesses her; controlling her common sense. The incessant creaking of the worn out floor boards outside of her room brings her intense anxiety every time it travels closer to her door. The sound fluctuates, increasing then decreasing like a marching band proceeding forward in a fair. Her doorknob shakes. Fear creeps up her throat. She clutches onto the blanket that wraps around her with small hands, imagining that the fabric can protect her from what is coming.

"Leave me, please! Not today. Just go!" She yells, hoping that the person has some sort of sympathy for her. Tears pool in her eyes and she licks her lips as they're suddenly dry.

Time passes, and the rattling slowly disperses as if the person on the other side of the door changed their mind. The footsteps continue to wreak havoc as they retreat from her room but she takes no note of this. She breathes a sigh of relief and closes her eyes against the dreary scene for a moment. That was a close call. They almost got it.

The idea of safety was a foreign concept to her, but she feels almost secure now. It is crazy how she knows the exact moment when she'd be okay for the rest of the night; right before her guardian angel's presence became known. It always happened. The war ends when he is near.

'I am crazy,' is her conclusion to justify it all.

Knowing why, her cheeks become warm. A sudden sweet waft of mint floods into the area. The diversion seems to be strong enough to revert her hazard mind, since the footsteps are now gone and her room goes back to being desolate.

Silence.

Peace quells the madness around her, alluding to a normal night. Back was the sound of the chirping insects and the noise from her fan; the sound of her breathing.

The otherwise dusty space now smells of peppermint rather than mold or mothballs. She inhales deeply, savoring the scent. Peppermint was her favorite odor in the world, one that she would be content to smell for the rest of her life.

The sensation of being watched disturbs her from the short reverie. Her gaze falls over to the silt-caked window covered loosely with a threadbare curtain. She usually looks toward the glass during these restless nights, waiting and waiting for the shadow-like presence to pass outside her window.

The window shudders open and his hands brush aside the decaying lace curtains. The curtains drift lazily forward with the rush of cool air, the crisp breeze chilling her uncovered toes. She doesn't dare move to obstruct the wind, afraid that this moment would end. He could disappear through the window again and the footsteps would come back to haunt her.

She stays completely still, trying to look like she was sleeping and sneaking in a little snore. Secretly, she likes when he shows that he's wistfully pining for her attention.

She shakes her head and scratches at her arm uncomfortably, as if to discreetly brush aside her disparity. She is not fond of her new nighttime persona. In fact, her previous self would laugh cruelly at the girl hiding under these sheets anticipating the presence of a boy.

Instead, her shoulders would be straight, her posture would be wide, and her stance would be strong. She would be ready for anything the world handed her, no matter what she had to conquer and who she had to upset. This was the kind of girl he became friends with all those years ago; the kind he would want her to be. She will act like that person when the morning came, but while lying there in the reality of the night, she was hardly more than a coward. Her own thoughts terrorize her and convince her of such a dual-reality.

She's afraid. As many teased her throughout grade school, a scaredy cat. The term felt poisonous on her tongue. It was not something she was fond of.

All she knows is that if he realizes who she really is, he would cease to love her. She knows this is true and not a conjuring of false thoughts that a teenage girl creates when she's lonely in bed. The things she does and the people she associates herself with are horrible, just as she believes she, herself, to be horrible.

She wasn't pure nor was she innocent. She wasn't as beautiful as the bright moon that shines light onto the earth. Her greatest characteristic was her submission, and this is the only thing she can think of that would make herself pretty in his eyes. A pretty girl is all she wants to be; for him.

'Does he think I'm pretty? Is there something wrong with me?'

Petrified by the dark grievances and fears, she almost doesn't notice the familiar noises stirring the stale air.

Distant shuffling and the sound of loose jeans softly dragging along the floor can be heard across the room. The large comforter which previously laid in a heap on the floor is swiftly lifted upward and spread over her. Then, she feels behind her the presence of a larger body. Muscular arms snake around her bare waist and pulls her close. She closes her eyes and breathes unevenly, not yet accustomed to his visits.

"Breathe. It is just me, Florence." He murmurs softly into her ear.

Yes, just you-- just you and me, and the night.

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