Lights out


When the bulb burns out.

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The last few words of the chapter get swallowed in a cloud of black ink. It’s dark. And warm. Like someone forcefully wrapped an Alpaca black shawl around my face. The book mark slides off from between the pages. So I fold the corner of the last read into a small triangle, and keep the book aside. I curse the light bulb. What a time to die.

The sudden blindness is unnerving. I am reminded of Jodie Foster trying to find her way around in that particularly spine-chilling scene in Silence of the Lambs. Not a good time to think of Hannibal. Also, by now, the moonlight has leaked in from the curtains shining a blue glow on everything. I can see the outline of the bed, side table, lamp and TV.

But there are still corners in the room that are tar black. It’s hard to leash the imagination. The scariest scenes from the best horror movies coalesce in my head, and cast a blood-curdling trailer. Slimy creatures, babies with grey vacant eyes, worse, dolls with rosy cheeks and a fixed stare. A possessed Emily Rose. Hope it’s not 3 am on the dot. Something is hiding, waiting, ready to pounce. The torch seems light years away. The air seems too viscous. Legs turn into lead.  Drops of sweat blind my eyes.

And that’s when I hear a knock…

Followed by a distant voice, “Honey, I am home.”

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Painting on a light bulb is a first for me.  It is so smooth, so easy, and so much fun.