Night

You were always scared of night. You believed that night was the color of death, of horror. You refused to stay alone after sunset and recoiled at the sight of paintings of night.

I remember you used to be terrified of the shadows the lamps made back in your room. They resembled a large monster with spiky horns on its back and a huge mouth that seemed to gulp down the entire house. Whenever the beast appeared, you crept into my bedroom and curled up next to me until morning, after the sunshine created elaborate little shadows and the smell of bacon and eggs wafted into the room. 

I remember you used to shiver whenever you stepped on a shadow. You claimed they were sources of misfortune–tiny molecules of unhappiness chunked together. You never stepped on shadows unless it was unavoidable. Our mother ridiculed you for that–very often, she pushed you in a shady area and I had to pat your back while you bawled your eyes out. I remember the time at that tennis match when you refused to rest in the shade and eventually collapsed after half an hour. Mother scolded you lots for that, but you stared at her defiantly throughout her lecture. 

I remember the way you gazed at me when we had to take a nighttime stroll. I remember how your eyes wavered and goosebumps appeared on your yellow arms. I remember I used to hate the way you clung on to my arms during those walks and not once let go of my clammy hand. 

I remember the way you loved me to death, and I remember the way I abhorred your existence. The way I cringed every time you told me you loved me, the way I sighed every time you kissed my cheek. The way I woke up two hours early so that I could eat breakfast without you, the way I forced myself into the track team I knew you’d never join. The way I clenched my fists every time our parents complimented you, the way I wished you failed in everything you did. The way I imagined your gruesome death, the way I conjured images of you failing. 

If I had the chance to go back, I wouldn’t. Would you forgive me for that? If I had the chance to love you back, I wouldn’t. Would you forgive me for that, too?

I remember you used to pay me money to fetch you candy at the nighttime market. I loved those summer nights because I knew you’d never interrupt my time, and I knew you hated those evenings because you stayed closed up in your room while your friends went out to buy cool drinks. 

I remember you used to hate the night, the darkness, and the shadows. I remember the way I loved it instead, how I reveled in them, stepped into every shadow I could possibly find, enjoyed strolling in the streets at night alone, and closed my eyes to see what I could see in the dark. 

Maybe that’s why the night sky sucked you in–because I stepped on the shadows too often. Maybe that’s why you disappeared into the darkness of the sky, on a night without any stars.

You were always scared of night and how it seemed to lure you in. How ironic–that the thing you feared most absorbed you, that night sucked you in. 

Twenty years. Twenty years since your death, and still I have not overcome it. I used to hate you–why should I care for your death at all? Is it an unavoidable thing, grief and regret? 

Now that you’re gone, your fear of night has lingered on me. Now I cannot stand the blackness of night, the infinite unknown and unending sorrows hidden beneath every shade. Now I think I understand your fear and how you felt back when we were kids. How you seemed to be a shadow yourself, sulking behind me and our parents, always a nuisance and never special. 

Now I turn the night lamp on, turn every bulb as bright as I can, avoid stepping on unforgiving shadows.

In the end, we are the same–same face, same mothers, same body, same fears. As I lie awake, head hidden under the covers of my bed, I have finally come to realize that night is not a bundle of darkness, of terrifying creatures, of the unknown, but a place that holds secrets, pasts, unspoken words. 

And maybe, through the darkness of night, I can finally amend my sins.