By December, she stopped fighting. She sat on her fire escape as snow fell, watching the city blink its halogen eyes. And for the first time in twelve months, she laughed—because maybe the devil was just loneliness wearing a costume. Maybe 2016 wasn't cursed. Maybe it was just honest.
She first noticed it in the way mirrors held her gaze a second too long. Then in the flicker of streetlights that followed her home. Her phone autocorrected "hope" to "hopeless." Her dog growled at empty corners. Friends canceled plans with excuses that sounded rehearsed. By summer, she stopped sleeping. The ceiling above her bed seemed to breathe. bedevilled 2016
She went inside. Boiled water for tea. Left the lights on. By December, she stopped fighting