How far does your creative imagination take you? Far enough? Too far?
Me? My creative mind doesn’t over-freak. It doesn’t invent ghosts or goblins. Or monsters under my bed. Or even bogymen in the dark.
Or didn’t. Until last night.
Backing up. Two weeks plus. To when my home was cased. In daylight. By someone employed by someone hired by me.
Since then, there’s been a nervous wait. A wait to get appointments. A wait to get security reviews. A wait to get quotes. A wait for security in place.
We are now waiting for paint to dry. My contractor and me.
We are waiting one more day. One more night.
But while I’m waiting here, it’s just me. Just me and two cats.
There’s now one more night waiting for freshly painted security gates. One more night before I can sleep. One more night before I can let go of this dark.
Yes. Last night, here, there was dark. And in the dark, there they were.
Crawling up the pole, over the connection, and into and onto my patio. Stomachs hugging terracotta tiles. Hands reaching up. Unscrewing lights. Dimming the patio into black.
Then waiting. Waiting for me to sleep. Waiting for arrivals. Waiting to slither around back and through the bedroom sliding doors.
No. They’d come in through the kitchen doors. In a rush.
Or maybe both. Both sides. Both ends. Yeah.
From the time I looked up to see a dark patio. From the time I clicked the switch up and down and up and down to nothing (all patio lights dead. dead? all? all). From that time, it started. Fear.
Fear grew with information. Information from the security reviews. Information on ease of entry, degrees of weaknesses, and local statistics. Too much information. Too much thinking.
Heart panting, thoughts searching, I went through suggested possibilities.
When. Where. How. And one of my own, how many.
Twisted toward the hall. Nothing. Twisted back to the patio. Nothing. Then back to the hall. Back and back. Still thinking.
Eight thirty. How much time has gone? One hour? Two? How long can I last? All night? Not like this. Not with this thinking. Not with this fear.
Fear climbing up my back and onto my shoulders. Clinching my neck. Flushing my face. Freezing me here.
Do I leave? To where? If so, can I come back? And to what? And what about getting dressed? First? Do I even have the nerve to go back there? Where clothes are?
Action needed. DO something! Now! Speed dialed dear friend Lynn. IM’d dear Tom. Emailed sweet Alina and Chris. Twisting to the left, facing to the right. Watching. Thinking. Heart frozen, then racing, then frozen again. Neck hurting. Back stiff. Stomach tightening. Acid rising. Tears too.
An alarmed Lynn on the way, dialing help as she goes. Tom typing, keeping me calm. Trying to keep me calm. Telling jokes. Bless him. Bless them.
Lynn here. Finally. Her hugging to my crying. Her concern to my fears. Her fears to my fears. Then us laughing. Together. At the crazy that is night. At all this crazy that is me. At the creative mind. The creative imagination. At the dark.
One more night. That’s all I have right now. One more night. Facing the light.
With two cats. And what’s left of the Glenfiddich.
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A sense of humour is one reason I live where I do. It’s also one of the many reasons I don’t mind traveling to the UK on and off. Yes, that tidy island off the coast of France has quite the local 
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