Scared of my Shadow
This story contains references to drugs.
My shadow hates me. They always have. I’ve never known why.
Perhaps they are jealous of the colour in my skin and hair and eyes, that I am whole and have these things. I am not merely the space that light has abandoned (no matter how much I feel like it sometimes), and they are. Maybe everyone’s shadow hates them, maybe it’s part of the human condition, and mine is just a bit better at expressing it. Or maybe I did something to deserve their rage, some forgotten slight (perhaps in utero?) festering in their two-dimensional soul, driving them to detest me.
Whatever the reason, my shadow has always hated me.
When I was a child they expressed it in subtle ways, they’d taunt me into more and more dangerous games. I know now that they were always hoping that each one would be my last. They’d dance weightlessly on logs in the middle of a raging torrent, knowing that my dumpyness and physicality would be my downfall should I follow them. They’d dare me to climb more and more precarious trees in the middle of a storm, delighting in my terror as the trunk rocked backwards and forwards. They’d push me off higher and higher rocks at the beach, laughing at my screams all the way down.
I always tolerated them, they were my most reliable companion after all. They were always there for me, no matter what. So I followed them, wherever they lead. No matter how dangerous, how far from home they took me, I was faithful. I would always follow them.
As I grew, their hatred became more focused, more deliberate. I could no longer pretend that they were just a friend with a bad influence on me; I started to realise they were actively trying to destroy me. I kept my fingernails sharp to defend myself against them, but they just used them to break my own skin. When I lashed out at them they’d hide behind people I knew, so I screamed at my friends and family instead. They gagged me when I should have spoken, shoving their long, treacherous fingers down my throat. And when all I wanted was to remain silent, their voice was a perfect replica of my own, and they spoke for me.
They made my approach to adulthood a living hell, approving only of the most inappropriate company I kept. I tried to be near people that shone light into my life, that made my shadow disappear, but they never got to stay for very long. Only those that embraced my shadow, that lapped it up and fetishised it, were allowed closest to me.
They finally tried to kill me earlier this year. They sensed when I was tired and overwhelmed, at my wits end. They chose their moment carefully and oozed into the third dimension like a cuttlefish squeezing through a gap a fraction of their size. I didn’t even realise they had mass until they pushed me against the wall and put their hands around my throat. I kicked out, I struggled against them, but they were only solid where they wanted to be, where they needed to be. Every blow I tried to land sailed harmlessly through them.
Still holding me with one hand, they picked up the blisterpack with the other. I saw the look in their blank, dark, absent eyes and immediately knew their intentions. I heard the seals pop like bubblewrap as they collected an overdose in their palm. They wrenched open my mouth and forced the pills in, rubbing my throat so I would swallow like I was a disobedient cat. I felt the medication settle into my empty stomach, I thought I heard a fizz as chalky pills dissolved in acid.
The hissing sound was a tempered blade in my soul. Gathering every bit of strength, I grabbed the hands my shadow was actualising and flung their body across the room, giving myself time to catch my breath. I realised I needed to call someone, but they saw my eyes flick to my phone and predicted my next move. We reached for it simultaneously, but they were just a little bit quicker. They held it out of my reach, taunting me with it, tossing it to themselves as I tried desperately to pluck it out of their control. I wondered briefly why they were so much taller than me.
They had to keep their hands solid to hold on to my lifeline, so I still had something to aim for. I grabbed one and bit down hard, they tasted like smoke and booze. While they were reeling I managed to snatch my mobile and make the call. As I mumbled down the line, I noticed they’d finally stopped moving. Watching me speak to someone paralysed them.
They were furious, how they raged after I hung up. They called me every nasty name anyone could imagine, slapped me in the face repeatedly, determined not to let me forget what they wanted me to do. They never left my side through treatment, undermining my recovery every step of the way.
I’m learning to ignore them, to bury myself in tasks and distractions until they stand next to me, silent and impotent. I know now that they are even more shy than I, that the presence of even those they know the best is enough to render them catatonic. Sometimes I draw them, write about them or dance with them, all these things appease. They are sitting politely as I type these words, watching me.
I’ve learned that, werewolf-like, their power waxes and wanes with the moon. When they are at their most influential only potions and silver bullets will drive them back, and I utilise both unashamedly.
I long for the day my fear no longer drives me, the day I can sit alone, sober and unoccupied and watch my shadow stay in its place beside me, not disturbing me. The day I am no longer scared of my shadow.