[Bluejay]

Under the oppressive tyranny of night, his dreams spilled out and flowed into the streets. Deprived of the pleasure of temporary oblivion, he staggered through the chilly air, seeking an outlet for his nervous energy before the sun rose and subjected him to another unbearable day. He longed in vain for a cessation of thought, for a dark, sweet nothingness to descend upon his consciousness and relieve him of the mental torment that comprised his daily existence.

He was irritated. His head felt tight, as if his brain had swollen such that it could no longer fit in the echoing cavern he carried between his ears. If he had a fork, he would have jammed it in, to relieve the pressure, pressure crammed in from without by all the chains that squeezed his being as he tried with futility to live a passable life.

His soul was filled with an agony that knew only periodic solace, when he could close his eyes to his daytime dream world and his mind to his nighttime one and find the peace of the dead. That peace was not to be his tonight. He was tired, more tired than he could remember having been. He felt that he had half a mind, that his mental vitality had been sucked away by the cold corporate world that held him enslaved for ten hours a day. To fill it back up, he had only to put his body to rest, but it refused. His bed was thrashed; his emotions were stretched to the snapping point. In the end, his body won. He indulged it now, clothed in hope that it would be satisfied enough to behave for the few remaining hours before dawn.

The neighborhood was empty, with everyone tucked away for the night, steeped in shrugging ignorance that he walked among them. His shoes were barely audible in the tenuous silence. The street lights gave only spotty respite from the creeping darkness, with much of the world slinking in the shadows, trying itself to fade into nothingness for just a little while, freed from the attention of prying eyes. He hadn’t come out to look at it, and it was too much effort to try. He only wanted to rid himself of his jitters, to pound them step by step into the sidewalk so he could return home and finally slip beneath the surface and cease to be.

His footsteps were weary, just skimming the ground. But they still propelled him on, from darkness to light to darkness. Leaving the neighborhood, he headed down a narrow tree-lined access way, one side dominated by a tall concrete wall. Here, the light was more consistent, and he was suddenly aware of his dark alter ego pacing him, the somewhat familiar silhouette sliding along the wall beside him. They walked together, side-by-side.

A black movement on the ground stirred his sleepy brain, and he jumped back in fright. His irritation rose when he realized the tall grass blowing in the wind beside the path was playing tricks on him, making wriggling snakes at his feet. He stomped on them, but they continued to writhe, in silent mockery of his superiority.

Halfway down the street, he was on the verge of engaging in mental correspondence with his dark counterpart there on the wall. The poor thing was probably as exhausted as he, dragged out at that ungodly hour to keep him company on his lonely trek. He offered unspoken apologies to his companion as it moved along with him, silently, without complaint.

Suddenly, a dark shadow appeared out of nowhere, clubbing the image on the wall. Instinctively, he ducked and spun. There was no assailant. A high tree branch whipped about, passing in front of the street light, creating a shadow that blotted out the light as it passed. He blinked at the flickering light, mesmerized by the chaotic movements.

Regardless of his physical state, he knew it was time to head home.

As he turned and started back, the wall was on the other side, and his image paced him there now. Soon they would both be back in bed. Having taken in the sights on the way out, the journey home was mindless and unseeing. He was only dimly aware of the sidewalk passing beneath his feet and his shadow dancing on the wall beside him.

Despite his dampened state of mind, he clearly saw the intruder. Another shadow had joined his on the wall, approaching from behind. It stood half a head taller than he, and it walked with a menacing creep. He spun, but there was nothing there. The new shadow, too, was gone from the wall. He looked around. He looked up, along the top of the wall and in the trees. There was nothing there.

Turning slowly, with a cautious eye toward the wall, he resumed his homeward march, somewhat faster now. Before long, the shape loomed behind him again, closing the gap despite his livelier pace. Not wishing to be tricked again, he maintained his step, walking stiffly and watching; he struggled to resist the overwhelming urge to spin. It grew closer behind his poor shadow. The profile of its head was hideous, that of a creature from the depths of the darkest nightmares. It had an elongated jaw and a flat nose. As he watched, dark shadow hands rose in front of it, approaching his head, and the mouth parted slightly, exposing jagged teeth.

With the claws mere inches from his silhouetted head, he couldn’t take it any longer. He spun and thrust out with his hand. Once more, there was nothing there, his arm slicing through empty air. He turned to his panting, wide-eyed partner. Once more, it was safe.

On a whim, he started backing along the street, watching the wall closely. It could not creep up behind him… Then it was there. His staggering shadow was backing right toward it, and it waited there, arms raised for the final blow. He flailed about again, but as before he stood alone on the street.

Bed called to him. He wanted to be home. Precious time was passing as he stood there, and his sleep-deprived brain was playing games with him, creating phantoms out of dark edges and wind-blown flora. Disgusted, he turned and strode with certainty homeward.

When he saw the shadow stalking him again, rippling along the wall behind his, he clenched his jaw and strode on. When it approached directly behind, he held his head tall, though his eyes were wide. As the hands crept toward the outline of his neck, he tensed his shoulders and continued forward, despite the chill at his back and the drool stretching down from the creature’s enormous jaws.

He laughed at his own creativity, that he could conjure such a marvel of horror. If he could only bottle it, he could quit the rat race once and for all. But the laughter ceased abruptly as the shadowy fingers wrapped around the dark throat on the wall, and he finally felt the slimy, icy tendrils caressing his skin. He reached up with his own hands, but there was nothing there to grab. The creature throttled his shadow, and his own breathing became strained. His instinct was to fight, and he twisted and struggled, but there was nothing there to fight, no enemy to lash out at. He danced and swayed all alone on the dimly lit sidewalk.

Falling to the side, he saw the end of the wall a scant distance away. On impulse, he pulled against the darkness that held him, clawing his way forward. Unseen fingers held him back, but he pushed with his legs and managed to creep, step by step, along the sidewalk. He gripped the wall like a sheer cliff, fighting the force of gravity that threatened to send him careening down into the abyss. And, little by little, he made progress.

With a final thrust, his hands finally found the edge, and his fingers found a firm grip that enabled him to pull himself past the towering wall, sliding around it into the shadows. His dark doppelganger disappeared, and with it went the pressure around his throat. He sat in the gloom, gasping for breath, rubbing futilely at his wounds.

Then, he leapt to his feet and, emerging from the shadows, raced down the street, his shadow struggling to keep up. He went from darkness to light to darkness, never in the light long enough for his twin to risk harm.

Reaching the safety of his home, he entered and made his way to bed, without ever once turning on a light.

The next morning, he woke with a burning sensation around his neck. He staggered to the bathroom, still half dead from too little sleep. There in the mirror, he saw the results of his night’s journey: deep red welts around his throat. He moved forward and examined them, running his finger in the grooves.

He stepped back and studied his face, the tired lines under his eyes. Perhaps he wouldn’t go into work today. He froze as a shadow fell across his reflected face. He turned, but there was nothing there. Then he felt the icy cold embrace his neck once more. As it tightened, he looked frantically around the room, but there was no shadow.

Then his eyes met his own in the mirror. And he finally saw the awful hands that gripped his image’s throat so firmly, squeezing tighter and tighter. He and his reflection pulled and struggled, but there was no escape in the tiny bathroom from the monster that held his counterpart, turning his face a blue that grew deeper and deeper, as the shadows crept in around his vision.