Child of the Night

Rebellion without truth is like spring in a bleak, arid desert. - Kahlil Gibran

My name is Sarah DeLuz, and I am a true child of the night. No, I'm not a vampire or a werewolf. I'm not a supernatural being. I'm different because I have xeroderma pigmentosum - XP for short.

Now, don't run and grab your dictionary or search the Internet. It's just a fancy word for sun allergy, an extreme sun allergy.

Scanning the room, mundane surroundings come into view.

The same bedside table, with three scrolled legs, adorns the area. It's been part of the decor since childhood. And it still remains in the room today, reminding me of a time long since passed.

In the far corner, next to the white oak dresser, stands a chair. Not just any chair, it's Victorian with elaborate embroidery on the bellowing, oversized padding. In the center there lies a single image of a masked female holding a lace parasol above her head.

The decorative umbrella houses a host of images, such as an eye, lions with thick manes, and flowers, and ancient Sanskrit symbols that took me years to decipher: 'Turn not a blind eye in light or darkness. For the meekest prey may become the hunter.'

A large, covered window spans the length of one of the plum-purple walls. The floral curtains hanging, thick and heavy, contain a lining to block out light. It's seven steps from the side of my bed. I know this because I've counted them many times before.

Seems a shame to cover the beauty of the window's architecture. But any exposure to sunlight or ultraviolet remains a forbidden folly - one I must avoid. Even minute amounts can cause irreparable damage to my skin. So, the curtains stay closed during the daylight hours and only opened under the cloak of darkness.

The red numbers glowing on the clock on top of the bedside table reads 11:15. Night has brought with it, both silence and darkness, leaving the house as silent as a group of church mice.

Scooting my feet out from under the warm covers, fully clothed. I inch off the bed, wrap my fingers around the braided cord of the curtain, and then I draw it open, exposing the bay window.

Moonlight bathes my room.

The darkness provides a comfort. It offers the promise of life and a touch of adventure. In the lurid depths of the night, extraordinary beauty blooms if one knows where to look.

Staci Mack, my three-year-old half-sister, moans a complaint between pursed pink lips. Rolling over, she hides her delicate face under the lavender comforter on my full size bed.

She's afraid to sleep alone, especially in the dark. That's why she's in my bed instead of hers most nights. One could say she's a child of the light.

Sliding the latch on the window generates a muffled click. The lock springs open. Tipping my head toward the open bedroom door, I listen for soft footsteps on the Spanish-tile floor.

Silence fills the air. With ease, I scoot the window up just enough to slip through.

"Morph." His name rolls off the tip of my tongue like a fleeting whisper in the night.

An ocelli-and-tear-stained-marked head comes into view.

Stretching his long, elegant neck, he slithers onto the windowsill. His golden-colored eyes reflect the moonlight. He chirps, in a hushed tone, as if sharing a secret message between friends.

"Come on, boy. We're burning moonlight."

Morph leaps out of the house with the grace of a stealthy cat, and I slide the window down. Standing at thirty inches long, from chest to rump, and weighing almost forty pounds, he's on the large side of the Savannah cat family.

The metal trash cans, several feet away, rattle. Morph inspects the contents of each one.

A cornucopia of odors wafts in the air. Covering my nose does little to filter the putrid smell.

My dad and stepmother don't approve of my nightly outings, but luckily, they're heavy sleepers. It would take an earthquake to wake them in the dead of the night.

My bike is leaning against the house. Grabbing the handlebars, I raise the kickstand and make my way to the gate. It's locked. Removing a bobby pin from my hair, I bite the little rubber tips. The blunt end slides into the keyhole. Slowly, I manipulate the stem of the hairpin until I feel the locking mechanism snap, and the door swings open.

Turning back toward the window, the covers on my bed move rhythmically with each breath Staci takes. She'll sleep until dawn, never realizing I left.

The cool night air is still, void of any breeze, which is odd for fall in Deadwater, Maine. But the streets are empty, as usual, this time of night.

Few people venture out into the dark, but there're exceptions, like Mr. Jackson. He lives several houses down and has insomnia most nights. For an old guy, he's cool because he keeps my night excursions a secret. I think he knows my dad would flip out if he knew I was out most nights, especially since I'm supposed to be snug in bed.

The telltale sound of wood-on-wood scrapes against the floorboards of the porch. He's sitting in a rocking chair, bundled up in the dark.

"Evening, Mr. Jackson."

"It's a cold one tonight," he yells out in a southern drawl, his voice rough and raspy from emphysema. "Feels and smells like rain. I can feel it deep down in my bones. You be careful now, you hear?"

"I always am." Releasing the handlebars, I wave. "Besides, I have Sir Morph, my trusty bodyguard."

"Ahh, Sir Morph, I almost forgot about your gallant protector."

He hunches over, his body racked with bronchial spasms. The wet, rattling cough loosens phlegm deep in his chest. His face reddens.

"Enjoy the moonlight. But be weary of what spawns in the darkness, child."

"Catch you on the way back." I pedal past his manicured lawn.