‘Night Terror’
Eva J. Stuart’s work is rooted in abstract portraiture, drawing from the complexities of a religious upbringing and the quiet struggles of women in a world that refuses to see them.
Night Terror
I’ve always believed childhood nightmares are simply a clever ruse, a poetic twist to the chaos of existence within young minds. But honestly? For me, it felt more like a betrayal, like the universe looked at me and decided I was meant to wrestle with its absurdity. I was no longer a naive child bursting with giggles; I was the kid standing frozen before a jigsaw puzzle that seemed intentionally designed to mock me, pieces conspicuously missing, while my mind unraveled under the weight of existential dread. Mortality loomed over me like one of those slow-motion train wrecks where you’re strapped into the front car—arms crossed, powerless, and acutely aware of the disaster that awaited.
Night terrors? I wasn’t a casual observer; I was their connoisseur. They struck when you least expected it, launching me from peaceful slumber into a full-blown panic. I remember the comical image of a post-nap me, hair standing up like an unkempt scarecrow, screaming. I darted through the house as if death itself were hot on my heels, ready to pounce. My dad regularly had to intercept my frantic escapades. To him, I was simply a child lost in the grip of delirium, but to me, that grim reaper was no fiction; he’d morphed into a tangible being with an unsettlingly warm smile, concealing something sinister beneath.
And then there was my grandmother, spinning tales in between cigarettes like a master storyteller intent on instilling extra existential dread. Hell, she told me, was lurking around every corner, with the devil eager to twist my innocent soul, to test me. Thanks a lot, Grandma. I was already grappling with life’s immutable transience. I would tilt my head in confusion, ears perked up, seeking solace from my dad, who nonchalantly dismissed those tales with a casual, “Oh, we don’t believe that.” It was the adult equivalent of slipping a comforting blanket over my anxious mind, offering a moment’s reprieve from the relentless barrage of dark thoughts. I clearly trusted his authority on other worldly matters.
As the years went by, I stumbled into Eastern philosophies, feeling enlightened for having taken a class that promised wisdom. I learned life wasn’t merely some whimsical playground; it was a relentless obligation. You don’t get to opt into existence; you can choose to endure it. According to Buddha, life is set up like a buffet of pain, loss, and perhaps a sprinkling of joy intended to prevent you from bolting toward the exit with your hands in the air—more material for anxious dreaming.
Ah, the naïveté of youth. Back then, death seemed distant, a mere statistic waiting in the wings. Now, lying awake next to my wife, feeling the soft cadence of her breathing, my heart beats as if conspiring to make an escape of its own. Because let’s be real, one day that heart will clock out, and I’ll finally be free from the prison of my thoughts. I wish for a gentle exit, a quiet fade into the night rather than a grand, tragic finale. So, for all of us navigating this cosmic ballet, let's silently wish for peaceful departures, a serene embrace of stardust as we return to the universe, hoping that eternity offers something a little less daunting on the other hand, perhaps calm, peaceful dreams free of life’s burdens.
Russell Chamberlain was born in Nashville, Tennessee, but currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with his family. He recently published an article in the Salt Weekly (issue 35) about the independent music scene in Nashville, Tennessee. He writes short stories, fiction, and poetry. He had two nonfiction pieces published this past winter, one with Waxing and Waning and one with Beyond Words Anthology.
