I thought she was only alive when my bedroom lights were out. She'd sit in her chair in the corner of my room and watch over me as I slept and I always thought so fondly of her. Then one night I saw her outside in the middle of the street crouching over a dessicated cat, mouth full and chewing slowly, thoughtfully as she glanced around like a wild animal guarding its prey.
Up until that moment I'd called her my guardian angel for the way she'd whisper such nice things to me in such a sweet little voice. The same voice she'd used to whisper to the half-eaten cat beneath her through a mouth dripping with fresh meat.
I'd cried for the rest of that night, kept the lights on too in case she tried to come back. Every night after I'd kept the main light on and learned to sleep through the harsh glare rather than risk facing her again, not knowing if she'd be whispering through a mouth full of my flesh next and not wanting to find out.
Last night was the first time since that night that I slept with the lights off, half waking up to a hand running through my hair and a sweet voice whispering to me. She'd missed me all these years, she told me she'd never harm me and left a small jar of sharp teeth beside my bed as a gift.
Tonight I have to ask myself if I want to risk angering her by keeping the lights on or risk my life in the dark.
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