Whispering

    Lie in bed and listen to the sounds.
    Blankets shifting. Lungs working. Kitten purring. Demons rising. Shadows whispering.
    Always whispering.
    Her breathing is soft, low, deep—asleep. Her body moves, occasionally. Limbs changing position so as not to be aware of each other.
    A long and pointed ear flicks. The blankets shift, nudge her black back a little. A head rises, two eyes blink, a pink tongue stretches out as she yawns. Two eyes disappear behind heavy lids. She curls into her herself, resting and nuzzling.
    The purring becomes soft and shallow. She, too, falls into sleep.
    Whisperings rise again. Echoed words. Dead voices. Rage. Hate. Fear. Tyranny.
    The shadows are nearly invisible. Most cannot see them. Seldom few have witnessed what is blatant. Once they sleep, the walls climb, tall as they ever were. The only protection attainable. Invisible barriers that climb and climb—trying to reach the skies above. Trying to prevent the shadows from rising and toppling it all.
    The night is their domain. The darkness is where they thrive. No matter how tall or indestructible the walls are, they topple and climb above them.
    “Bitch,” they echo. “Teach you once and for all,” they scream. “Don’t think it’s over,” they screech. “Bitch,” he shouts.
    The whispering never ends.
    When the sun’s light disappears, behind the invisible and receding line that is the day’s horizon, the darkness swallows everything. Swallows the safety, the security, the comfort, the bliss, the warmth and strength, the indelible birth. The darkness destroys all living things. Reverts life to death, growth to barest survival.
    Stand outside and the world dies. Find the walls and there’s a chance to wake again.
    Sometimes, even standing within the walls, survival is the only option. The shadows and the darkness follow some everywhere. The demons give life to others—in the shadows—with every death they cause—help along.
    The whisperings come stronger, louder. There’s no escape. There never will be.
    The soft and rhythmical breathing in the room fades. The only sounds are those from the past. Boots on hardwood. Boots on tiles. Boots on concrete, asphalt, carpeting, flesh, and bones. Wood on wood. Wood on boots. On tiles, carpeting, flesh, bones, muscles…
    The sounds are figments of an imagination. Yet the sounds are more powerful than factual reality. Sometimes the sounds take over during the day. Though it is more likely to occur when the horizon is swallowed by the shadows.
    A whimper echoes through the room. The purring stops. The soft and deep breathing catches. A warm hands touches cold skin. Soft and gentle whispers are uttered. The purring begins once more. Arms wrap around one another.
    The shadows retreat. The demons flee. The walls fall to shattered chunks of rubble and dust.
    The loud purring becomes faint and sleep enveloped.
    The muttered whimper becomes non-existent as sleep envelops another.
    Two warm arms never release as they both drift off to sleep. Safe again in the retreating darkness.