The darkness, for her, was comforting. When she lay down on her bed at night, she could almost pretend that she didn’t know what hurt was and she couldn’t feel any pain and the world was just a perfect place where dreams came true. She could lie to herself that with every thought she had, nobody was dying every minute and nobody was grieving over nobody. She could almost pretend that she was happy.
She would lie there and gaze into the impenetrable darkness and tell herself that it was a world of possibilities because she could not see the four walls. She would hope and hope and hope and imagine that they came true. In the darkness, everything was a constant, and she knew nothing else. She would not lose anything or anyone and she would not be so sad.
The darkness was her protection, and she loved the privacy it gave her. In the darkness she never had to see anyone hurt, and nobody would see her cry. The noisy whirring of the fan would drown out her quiet sobs, and darkness would not belie her.
She was always awake and not tired, until her thoughts drifted off to a better place called hope and when her mind dwelled there for long enough she hoped that it would make her tired so she could sleep.