Musings of a Punk Rock Father

My wife and I attempted to find sleep, listening to the wind blow against the house.  Melanie lay to my left, on her stomach, comforter drawn up tight around her neck.  Our single-paned windows shook violently back and forth in the frames.  Car headlights streamed in through the blinds, casting strobed shadows of branches and leaves onto the walls.  Ambitious trees reached to scratch the side of the house with their limbs.

"What was that sound," Melanie gasped, suddenly rolling over.

"What, the trees?"

"No, the noise downstairs."

I listened, holding in my breath.  Yes, I heard the noise.  A kind of creaking sound.

"I don't hear a noise," I lied.

Truthfully, I did not want to discover the person, or thing, that caused the noise.  I could think of no weapon at my disposal if I needed to defend myself.  Instead, I rolled over and tried to rationalize the sound.  It couldn't be a break0in.  We would have heard breaking glass or the door being forced open.   We would definitely hear footsteps. The floor downstairs forgave no weight imposed upon it.

My thoughts moved onto the irrational.  Maybe someone slipped in, a supernatural being, someone not bound by our laws.  Maybe it is making its way carefully across the living room, up the stairs, preparing to... I heard Melanie's soft breathing now.  She had fallen asleep, leaving me to my ever-expanding imagination.  Once the wind subsided, and the trees grew weary of tapping their fingers on our house, I finally fell into slumber.

The noise downstairs turned out to be a neighbor's screen door, pried open by the wind, rattling against the front siding.  If I had gone down to check, the sight of the offending door swinging back and forth would have offered relief.  Yet I preferred to wish away the potential danger.  Instead of facing the unknown, I often offer up a prayer of protection.  Part of my troubled imagination stems from my belief in the supernatural.  Something wants me to believe that I must have control.  Something wants me to believe that I must save myself.  My nightmares and fears point to these lies told by forces that wish to corrupt my beliefs and wrest me from the only protection I have.  The nightmares cling to these lies; they push me toward an illusion of providing salvation for myself.  The truth?  I can't save myself.

Next: Part VI