I never believed in perfection: It just seemed too happy, too good to be true. If anything came close to perfect, it was bound to flip in the end.

My cousin tagged me playfully then leapt away. I chased after him, my sister at my heels. We were in China, honoring my grandmother’s death. I never knew her because she died when I was just a baby, so I wasn’t too emotional. The adults chatted quietly as we chased each other, and I never felt so free. The weather was ideal with just the slightest breeze to whisk our sweat away. Everything was perfect.

Perfect. There was that word again. The bomb that looks like a cake.

I slowed down to catch my breath, which puffed out in gasps. The wind whistled a lively tune as it snaked its way around me, and I remembered a parody of Row, Row, Row Your Boat from a creepy movie I watched long ago.
Run, run, little girl, running down the road
Then she trips and then she falls and whoops, she breaks her nose.
Run, run, little girl, stumbling along the street,
Then she trips and then she falls and whoops, she sprains her feet.
Staggering now, little girl, arms feeling like lead,
Then she trips and then she falls and whoops, she cracks her-
My body went rigid and everything around me went still. My cousin galloped over, lips still curled playfully, to see why I wasn’t chasing him. Not why my eyes were wide and unblinking. Not why I didn’t even flinch when he came face-to-face with me. He still doesn’t understand the English language but right then, he didn’t respond to my body language.
Then the trance was broken and I was dashing across the road like I had planned everything all along.
Like I had done that on purpose.
Like the chills that tickled the back of my neck did not exist.
I wish they didn’t.
I nimbly hopped over cracked stones and skidded around faded gravestones. I laughed and I ran faster and laughed more and spread out my arms, my sister and cousin far behind. And I felt so free, like it was my soul floating away and not my Granny’s. My surroundings blurred and my legs burned and everything seemed…
Perfect.
It happened so fast, I didn’t even realize I had tripped until my vision blurred and everything was smashed into a big, confusing blob. There was a smash. There was a feeling of hot blood. I caught a glimpse of the ragged, gooey, bloody mush that was once my knee. My stomach twisted.My whole being was trembling. I heard a shrill scream and looked a around widely until I realized the source was me. My heart pounded in my throat. I staggered over to the shadowed sidewalk and opened my mouth and my whole stomach dropped on the grit floor. Again and again until there was nothing more. And then I still spat and spat and breathed and breathed and breathed…
I have experienced fear but not the sheer terror, the heavy despair, that I felt now. Adults swarmed all over. There was a heavy silence. After that, I was probably in shock because I can only remember sitting in a maroon car and being driving to the nearest hospital.
I was glad of that misfortune that occurred that horrible day. Because although I had to go to the hospital, I was ok. Because I was still alive. Because there is such thing as a perfect day with painful events.
And that was a perfect example.

Tom slumped on his couch with a sigh. Sunlight streamed through the glass door leading to his yard and his pool. His maroon curtains draped heavily and swayed with the breeze, and his eyes drooped with lost sleep. There was nothing to do, nothing to make him want to get up. What could a person do to Sunday? If he had learned anything from dreary weekdays and short weekends it was to enjoy the latter while it lasted. Especially sweet, promising sunlit mornings like this. Soft rays, cloudless skies, dancing trees, angry cat…

Wait. Angry cat?

There it was, a golden tabby. He was very handsome: His whiskers were sharp and his fur was smooth. Only his narrowed eyes and stiff posture could give away his irritation. His tail lashed rhythmically side to side, and his face scrunched up. Tom cocked his head, curious. A soft snarl escaped from the cat. How long had it been here? Why was it so annoyed? Why was it  here of all places? How-

The cat let out a long, impatient yowl. His hair rose slowly and his gaze burned. He started pacing, stopping occasionally to complain and glare at Tom. He strutted with light, prim steps, tail high in the air. Apparently he got tired easily, however, because he sat after a few minutes to idly lick his paws, even though Tom always kept his house spotless. Then at once he turned to glare at the boy again, shrieking indignantly, as if to remind Tom he could do other things at the moment. But Tom could only gap at him. After another moment, he sniffed and walked away, nose in the air, with an air of high importance.

Confused, Tom went to the door. Immediately, the cat changed. He whirled around and let out a sugary purr. All at once his fur was soft and comforting and his tail was casually flicking from side to side. Only his eyes couldn’t change-narrowed slightly and expecting, they were set on Tom, who froze. He didn’t want the cat but he had a burning curiosity to see what the cat would want. Slowly, he inched the door open. The cat raised an eyebrow and waited. Tom pulled a little more, but he was still as a stone. Exasperated, Tom heaved the glass back. Puffing, he watched to see what the creature would do.

The cat looked around suspiciously before slowly trotting in. He yawned as if Tom’s house was not good enough. He padded over to the fireplace and wrinkled his nose. He sniffed the couch and let out a mewl of disgust. “What, house not good enough for you?” Tom burst out. He couldn’t help it; he was pretty proud of his new home and the cat treated it like dirt.

He glanced at Tom and snorted rudely. Then he streaked across the room and out of sight.

It looks dark-so black it makes one feel like it is sucking out all the light around it and drinking in the shadows. It slips and slides and you could catch a glimpse of it-an oozing black thing in the faint moonlight-before it flows away. It’s cruel, intelligent eyes are pitiless, deep-red slits. It pulses and breathes like anyone you know. And if things are just right for you to brush it at just the right moment or see it in just the right brightness, you may feel the smooth, thin skin of any regular human being. See the pale lips and sagging cheeks. Recognize the tiny fleck of sanity buried under the darkness.
And for some people, that is the scariest thing about it.
You may see it at night. Children feel it under their beds. The silence that greets it always send hearts pounding. And although every light is turned on, every candle dripping wax, every lamp shining and glowing and gleaming, you feel that chill. That bare touch of iciness as it slides a cold, slim finger down the curve of your spine.
The day may come. The sun may blaze. The world may be waking up, already losing the lightless touch of the night. You may forget the nightmare-filled, sleepless moments you had as you enjoy the safeness of daylight. But it will always be there. Watching. Waiting.

After all…you only are a shadow away.