she wouldn't just feed her fears, she would spoil them rotten. Any fantastic character that lingered after the story was told, any optical illusion in her peripheral vision, anything that went "bump" or "tap" or "squeak", any concept at all that destabilized her ability to feel safe, were all welcome to come together and embrace the futility of weighing oneself against the universe.
She would lie awake with a light on or a candle lit, or both, and refine her lack of significance in The Bigger Picture. There are countless ways to die. There are countless easy ways to die. Cross the street or slip on the stairs. Ingest the wrong poison. And then you're gone, leaving behind your very own, personal ripples of impact on a few beings and places and things before having whole lot of questionable nothing to deal with. Is that what wore the faces of demons and monsters and ghouls, leering at her from anywhere that was just out of sight? Is that what shaped those restless hours of her elevated heartbeat and city-born tinnitus masking any potential audial proof, of the reluctance to remove her blanket even when it was stifling, the half-dark shaping some undefinable object into a face that was not quite there, and not quite human? That great big Nothing in the never-ending story of life and death, coming to swallow everything. Gnawing away on the remaining time. Tick fucking tock.
She was glad, though, of having this reminder of the urgency of respecting existence and giving it all of the love she could possibly hold. Her fear held the hand of an undying desire to be that would not, could not fail to bring a sleep-deprived smile to her face. A tribute to a worthy cause. Right, so.. This is it. Here we are. .
