I wake up to the sound of... nothing. The dozen little sounds that make up what passes for a "silent" night: crickets outside, a breeze rattling leaves and windows, the noise of the ceiling fan above me, all drifting through the air. Sitting up slowly, I focus on the dim red glow of my clock (1:33), then on the light from the hall filtering in through the half-open door. Blink the sleep out of my eyes, hope that itch goes away. I need a smoke. It might help erase the dull pain that comes from the absence of anything; it might fill the emptiness, if only for a moment. My hand hovers, shaking, over my purse for a long moment. I shake my head, sharply pulling it away, and walk toward the light.
No one else is awake. Still, I pad quietly out of the house, opening the front door just quickly enough to not have it creak loudly. It's cool outside, and the breeze ruffles my already-messy hair a little bit. The closest streetlamp is about five houses down, so the only light is the moonlight, giving the grass a dark, bluish tint. This is the sort of night I shared with Karyn. A sudden sob wells up, and I wait, but the tears don't come. Only the abyss. Damn, but I'm sounding like Zoe right now.
I push myself up above the abyss, a metaphysical effort that almost feels real; I feel the strain on my body. The night seems a bit more hopeful, a bit less bleak. It isn't much, but it's something. The darkness is only a prelude to the light.
