You Are Not Real

I wonder if my older brothers recall how big my eyes got, how I begged "STOP," how distant I was for days after they held me captive, told tales of "the red-eyed ghost," and laughed like hyenas at my terror. They didn't really believe in you! If I'd told them I knew you, they'd have yelled "BOO!" even more often. I was convinced you were a reality back then--when I was an imaginative kid. I just knew that was you scratching faintly behind my bedroom walls breathing raggedly under my bed, moving the curtains on dead-still nights, opening the closet door an inch or so, just enough to make it creak. I was ninety-nine percent sure that those were your red, glowing eyes in the woods staring at me when I was playing outside alone . . . always when I was alone, that you were the feathery coldness brushing against my cheek at night when I was just about asleep, you pressing hard on my chest. Mom always said I was dreaming: "Be quiet and go back to sleep!" ************************ At last, I grew up--and outgrew YOU. I know--have known for years--that you don't exist. I made you up! When the curtain moves, there must have been a breeze.