Nighttime.

When darkness controls your every movement, when pain is more a familiarity than anything else, you might say that you have a problem. I can barely remember a time of happiness in my life. A time of joy, a time of contentment. How can I think of it now?

The darkness grows as I sit by the front window, watching the moon in all of its elegant glory. It seems so far away, but I want to reach for it. Just because I can. Sometimes, when the pain is too unbearable, when I feel that I'll go mad from sitting in the window--just sitting--I think of what it might be like if I left. If I flew away. If I just got the hell out of Dodge.

I'm still waiting for him. It seems that night is eternal, never ending, never sleeping. Just watching. All night, I watch for him, wait for him, long for him.

I know what I've become. A creature of the night? A shadow of a human being? Or am I just waiting?

It was a hot summer day when he left, the sun beating down on me as I watching him drive away. Maybe that's why I prefer the nighttime, why I just wish that the darkness would swallow me up.

Would I really do It? Kill myself? End my life? Sometimes I go to the kitchen and get the big kitchen knife from the wood block on the counter. It blinks in the lamp light, winking at me, daring me to do It. Would I do It? The pain would be gone, and I would feel nothing. I could end my life in a split second.

But what if he came back? He would find me on the floor. Bleeding and dying. And when I think of this, I always put the knife down. Turn around. And walk away, going back to my seat in the window.

I haven't heard from him in months. Autumn passed in a blur, winter dragged by. Now I find myself in the pale shadow of a summer moon, waiting for him. Watching for him.

He's never coming back, the Voice tells me. He's dead, gone. Buried. You'll never see him again, never touch him, never hold him. Never love him. End it now. End it now.

Of course he's coming back, the other Voice whispers. Don't give it all up now. Not when you've already waited for so long.

I can't listen to either one of them, so I close my eyes and tune them out, forcing myself to stay at the window. I have to wait. I can't wait. There's a battle waging inside of me, tearing at my heart and eating me from the inside-out.

They all gave up a long time ago. My sisters and my brothers, my mother and my father. They tried to talk to me, tried to get me out of the house. I locked the door on them and waited until I couldn't hear their pleading anymore. I pushed them all away.

Does this make me a horrible person? Am I really a creature of the night? One of my sisters - before she stopped calling - asked how I could stand to live with myself. What did she mean? I haven't done anything wrong, haven't killed anyone. Except, maybe, myself.

Do it, sneers the Voice. Come on. Do it.

I'm crying. I don't realize it until I reach the kitchen and pick up the knife. I can't stop the tears, even though I try to wipe at them with the back of my hand.

I'll do It. I have to. All I can think about is ending the pain, making it stop. He isn't coming back. The tears keep coming, and I stop trying to wipe them away. It hardly matters anymore, anyway.

As I walk to the window, I see the sun peeking over the tops of the houses. Light. Day is fast approaching, and I stare down at the knife. I have to do it before the daylight hits me. I have to end it before another day dawns.

Light spills into the room. Everything's happening too fast. Time is speeding up, the day is coming faster.

Do it. Do it.

Now the Voice is chanting inside my head.

Do it. Do it.

The knife is heavy in my hand, the handle cool against my skin. My fingers are trembling; my heart is pounding as the blood roars in my ears. Somebody stop me, somebody save me. But there's no one. I pushed them all away.

The first cut hurts the most. After that, I just hack away at my skin. The tears mix with my blood and it stings. I drop the knife

Stupid, stupid, the Voice hisses. It will take hours now, hours until your heart finally stops beating.

Why can't I make myself pick it up again? My body hurts, my skin tingles. The pain is making me angry. This is what the Voice promised me? This is how I'm going to die?

I can see the sun now. Will they cry for me? Will he cry for me?

And then I see the man. He's making his way up the front walk. He's in uniform and he carries a letter. A letter. I can just make out my name on the front of the envelope. He stops as he sees me, and I bleed as I watch from the front window. Shock and disbelief, they wage a war upon the grim features of his face. And the sunlight bathes him in gold.

I smile.

It's going to be a beautiful day.