Some nights, I had to use the bathroom. I would climb down the ladder of my wooden loft, slowly creeping down.  Every step, I tried the best I could not to make the tiniest creak. I slipped slowly down each rung, eyes squeezed tight, pleading that there was nothing to be afraid of.

But in my mind, there was. I just had to get to the bathroom. The midnight air was cold. I turned my back to the closet of my room, determined to not look.  I’d rather be unaware of something that was there than have it after me. Eyes shut tight, I slinked towards the doorknob. I held my hands out far in front of me and shuffled across the fuzzy carpet.

I tried to shove the frantic whispers of my fear into the back of my mind. Every instinct I had was screaming, “GO BACK!  GO BACK!”  Eventually I’d make it to the door. I quickly flipped on the light and darted around. Nothing.  I was relieved. I walked into the bathroom on the tips of my toes.

I flipped on the little moon shaped night-light in the bathroom. This was my period of safety, my safe haven. I took my time. After I had been in there long enough, I turned off the night-light. Now was the hard part.

I snuck out of the bathroom into the bright orange light of my room, contrasting against the black of night. I slowly pressed shut the door behind me.  With the peeling blue wallpaper all around me, I felt safe. I took my time with it and savored the light.  It was my only protection against what could be out there.

I had to do it now. The hard part. I smacked down the light switch and pivoted towards my bed. I darted towards it. I made it to the wood ladder and scrambled up it in two hops. I rolled onto my mattress and shot under the shield of my blanket. I was safe. For now.