She rises from bed at 5:00 am sharp, daily. Weekday or weekend, no matter the events of the previous day. No matter how tired she is, no matter the weather. This is a habit she picked up from her days as a camp counsellor during the summer of 1998. You always praised her in regards to her punctuality; complimented her go-getter attitude. “We’re so proud of you for getting up so early, dear.”, you would tell her. You play the role of the proud parent so well. Oh, how she would bask in the compliment. The praise would nourish her for aeons; there is enough nutritional value in your empty words to sustain her for weeks. But it is not enough. You failed to notice the things you should; her dark circles and her trembling hands and how she easily jumps at any bump or crash. Only I know the real reason she rises so early. Only I know of the nightmares that plague her; gnawing at her mind as soon as the sun sets. Only I know that waking is a saving grace to her, a hero pulling her from the pain and hardship of slumber. From an ocean of terror and teeth. Only I know that her summer as a camp counsellor didn’t teach her punctuality, but taught her about the dangers of the night. The susceptibility of sleep. The monsters that lurk, and haunt, and hunt. The very monsters that did so the campgrounds that humid summer of 1998. The daunting black of the night. The unnerving depth of the forest. How her legs ached from running. How the eyes scanned the treeline, watching her every move. The eyes, the eyes, the eyes. So many eyes… too many to count. She was one of the lucky ones, she ran fast. She didn’t get caught. She survived. She should be grateful, really. And she is. She was. She vowed to never forget how lucky she truly was. Yet, her hands are shaking less and less daily. Her nightmares don’t last quite as long. She is going to sleep earlier and earlier every night. She may not have forgotten yet, but I have returned, nevertheless, to remind her.
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