On the eve of Halloween, I walked down the sidewalk to the musical beat of vibrant leaves falling to their impending doom. Their destiny to end beneath the sole of my shoe. They harmonize with the tune of the wind whistling in the chilling air, whispering hidden secrets of the town of Hulda. An interesting name for a town that seems so surfaced. One that has no depth. 

I continued my walk when the glistening, majestic light shone from the moon. It burnt my eyes, I much preferred the dark. It’s a good place to hide; the shadows keep secrets safe. Light has a means of finding its way and uncovering even the most profound details of one’s life. Some good, others detrimental. So, I beg the question: Is light the true enemy? I suppose it depends on one’s perception.

I round the corner to find my house. On the surface, it appears decrepit. It’s lack of color and rotten wood with marks of residue would make it appear as such; however, the house holds items that are much more valuable than its appearance, too precious to be abandoned: memories. My mother always told us, me and my siblings, memories are what make us who we are. They shape a person’s mind and behavior. I guess that’s why I ended up the way I am.

Life favors certain beings. I was not one so lucky. From a young age, I experienced darkness. My father, much like our town, appeared plain and simple, but his secret crowded over our family like a permanent dark mist. Even now, I feel its coldness, the isolation. My father never cared much for me out of all my siblings, but when he was frustrated, angry with the world, that’s when life and my father finally paid attention. Such darkness teaches one to either befriend or surrender to it.

It was Halloween’s eve. I awoke with a jolt to the cool air that slid its way through the small opening of my bedroom window. The wind entered, whistling an ominous tune I much enjoyed. I turned my head to see a black raven, facing me from afar. Its eyes of black met mine in a gaze. There was an understanding, a sense of communication. I walked to the window. I pressed my hand to the window to appear closer to the raven. How free the bird was. How I wished I could be too. My bare feet walked the wooden floor of the balcony, creaking with every step. The quiet house was peaceful, delightful even. I walked to the fireplace where the jack-o’-lantern my father worked so ambiguously on sat. Its sly smile stared into me, mocking me. Its luminous face being the only source of light for the house. I picked up the pumpkin and set it on the kitchen counter. Its face of mockery was one I did not care for. Its smile looked familiar, like my father’s. I walked away from the pumpkin towards the stove. How the buttons tempted me. Taunted me until I gave in. The satisfaction of turning the knob sent a thrill through my body. I walked the pumpkin over to sit on the stove. Its throne grew with fire as I calmly made my exit. 

I watched the fire slowly grow, climbing the walls that had been freshly painted. The screams were muffled by the fire’s beautiful, crackling melody. Its colors were a mixture of red and orange. It was so beautiful, yet so dangerous. How I loved it so. I loved my family, with the exception of my father, but how was I to be free to fly if I was tethered? As I watched the fire ferociously burn, I finally came to a conclusion; one I often like to remember. Light has never been so beautiful.