It is nearly bedtime, on a chill November night. My two girls are playing quietly on the rug in front of the woodstove as I type.
"Mommy, what are you typing? Is it another scary story?" My oldest has read a few of the more kid-friendly tales, and enjoys them. My little dark princess.
"Yes, another story. I’ll be done in a minute, and come read to you," I reply, trying to keep the trace of impatience from my voice.
"Will you read us that story you’re writing? What’s it about, anyway?" She persists, and I sigh and turn from the desk.
"It’s a story about little girls who pestered their Mommy all the time while she was trying to write stories," I say, trying not to sound as snappish as I feel. "And how can I read it to you if you won’t let me finish it?"
"But why do you write them if we can’t read them?" She won’t let this go till I give her an answer.
"Because you’ll like them when you are older. And it’s good practice for if I ever want to write a book." I am just able to keep my voice level, but my answer satisfies her, and she goes back to playing with her sister.
I don’t give her the real answer, though. I don’t dare. I wouldn’t dream of telling her how difficult it is to keep the dark side of me inside, where no-one can see it.
Where it can’t hurt anybody, including them.
It’s only by letting it out to prowl in a story that its desire to hurt, bite, claw, and kill are satisfied. I’ve always managed to keep my dark side fairly under control, but it’s especially important once one has children. Dark sides aren’t too picky when they’re let loose. No-one is safe, not even my dark princess and her sunny little sister. And tonight, they’ve tried my patience.
Merely writing a story might not be enough tonight.
I think once the girls are safely in bed, I’d better go out for a prowl.
I mean, a walk…
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Credits to: Queenofscots
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