Thursday, May 06, 2004


As the music fades out, she gets up from her warm comfy chair and almost jumps across the room to the DVD player.

"That Halle Berry was something else. 'Gothika' indeed," she thinks to herself, "Damn it's dark in here." She flips on the spots over the fireplace. "Why do even the most familiar comfortable places feel so foreign and shadowy after a good thriller?"

She mutters to herself, "I better find something on TV Land so that I can settle down and get ready for bed," and after placing the DVD back in its box, she searches for the remote and begins flicking through the channels.

"Please let me find an episode of 'Leave it to Beaver' that I haven't seen 10,000 times before," she mutters while flipping through channel after channel of infomercials and crap. She stops at 301, TV Land.

"Damn. Just my luck. Try to take my mind off being scared and what do I find but the one episode of 'Leave it to Beaver' that he's home alone and scared. Phhhhh," she sighs in resignation.

Just then, a noise. She swivels her head toward the kitchen. Nothing. "Darn Cat. Never keeps still," she grouches and turns her attention back to the Swiffer commercial, "Oughta get one of those. I hear it kills cats. Tch."

Again, the noise. Thump, thum, thu. And she jumps that time. Mutes the television. Listens intently. Nothing. Silence. Absolute quiet. But wait, that sound's not coming from the bedroom. In a single motion she's up from her seat on the sofa and hurrying to the bedroom. All is quiet. She listens at the door for another beat and turns back to her show, but even as she turns she hears it again, but it's different this time. Tip, tap, tup. Ratt, ratt, rattttttttlle. "What the hell?"

She turns back to the bedroom door, pushes her hand cautiously against it. Then turns and runs to grab the baseball bat that leans in the corner of the foyer. Running on tiptoe she again approaches the door. Stealth is her middle name. She trips over the modem cord and goes crashing through the door into her room. She jumps up. Looking everywhere at once, she flicks the light switch. She listens. There it is again. Thip, thipp, Thipppppp, Ratt Rattttl Ratttttttttllllle. It's coming from that closet. She tiptoes over. In absolute terror now, she rips the door open. It falls on her. "Oh God. NO!!!"

She struggles up and throws it to the floor. It's her worst fear. It refused to stay locked up in the closet. Some skeletons just won't. Now she's there again. She's shaking. Sobbing. She feels like she's losing her mind. Another disconnected flashback. Although she's tried and she's not even sure she wants to, she's never been able to remember all of it. And maybe that's the greatest blessing.

"Why did you do that to me Daddy?" "I was your little girl." "You never should have touched me like that." "Now I have to live with your secret." "Your secret ruined me." "You died; went away from it all." "Left me to keep your secret." "Who wants to talk ill of the dead?" "Everybody still thinks you were 'Mr. Nice Guy.' They ACTUALLY called you that. What a secret. Nobody knew."

Some secrets should never be kept. Healing can only come with the revelation. Sometimes secrets are not your own, but still they imprison you. My humble submission to you my readers for this week's Blogger Idol.



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