I hate the parking garage.
Dark corners become the home to lurking shadows.
The hole where the angry entitled creature lives, eager to pounce on any woman who refuses his compliment.
The muscles in his hands ready to make my neck pay the price for his own broken and beaten heart.
Glance quickly through the cutting darkness to put that ingrained fear to rest.
The corner sits alone with its own guilt of who he decides to shelter.
Green peeling paint breaking off and crawling into the gutter as if to float away from the things they’ve seen.
Lights flickering on and off, mocking my every step, sending chills down my spine as the darkness pulls at my jacket.
Laughter echoing through the alleyway stops the drumbeat in my chest, the rhythm moving my feet.
The electricity in my pocket becomes a false shield against the helpless reality of what using it means.
Can 2 million volts stop a monster?
The stairwell haunted with the possibilities of what or who lies beyond every 90 degree angle.
The faces my mind expects to see cackle and growl until I round the turn and see nothing but a broken beer bottle, and other evidence of a close encounter.
The spot under the light calls out to me, a lighthouse on a stormy night.
A quick glance under the car provides a moment of peace, a brief interaction with safety.
Clinging to the car for safety as if some unforeseen force is going to rip me from my skin, steal me from my soul.
The seat feels like home, like a warm blanket holding me close coaxing me to breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Check the back, lock the doors, put my frightened tool of defense on the seat, so I can skurry out of that dark cave like a lost miner who finally found her way out.
Unlike the miner, in order to escape this cave the monster demands compensation before he’ll lift his teeth.
The open mouth of the creature smiles at me, knowing I’ll be back, as I drive out of him.
My heart slows down and I forget the fear that guided me through his dark cruel tunnels.
I hate the parking garage.
Inherent Fear 