I

It was late. Dark. The witching hour, my favorite part of the day.

You can’t beat the tranquility of night—the mystery, the fact that anything, anyone, could be lurking in every pocket of pitch-black. The darkness hides everything—faces, feelings, intentions. And tonight, the darkness was just as reliable as ever.

The curtains were drawn, the windows open, the glass reflecting the light from inside the room, showing my haggard, tired features.

I needed to freshen myself up, but first, I needed to check my Twitter and see what argument I could get into. The only thing better than a night on the tiles is a night spent pissing off trolls and arguing with idiots.

Several direct messages waited for me in my account. The first was a man who seemed very proud of his genitalia, even though he had very little to be proud of. He was standing in front of a webcam, his little todger proudly displayed for the camera, hanging between the hairiest set of testicles I have ever seen and thighs that looked like two bear arms. He was more gorilla than man, his hairless, cocktail-sausage-sized penis standing to attention like a bald, naked soldier in a thick, dense jungle.

I thanked him for his picture and replied with something special of my own: another penis, this one taken from a porn site, accompanied by the words “That’s not a penis. THIS is a penis.”

The second was an attempt at foreplay from a greasy troglodyte who had probably never met a female human, let alone had sex with one. I told him I wasn’t interested in the most obscene and gratuitous way that I could think of and then signed out for the night.

I moved on to my vanity mirror just as the sound of banging filtered through the open window. The night was empty, still, and although far away, the noise was loud, each bang like a clap of thunder from some distant, steadily approaching storm.

Several bangs were proceeded by a short silence, and then by more bangs, this set louder than the last, more desperate. More silence, followed by an even louder, cacophonous series of thumps.

I fixed my hair, my attention focused on my reflection and not the chaos outside my window. I was careful to place every strand, to make sure it looked perfect, because I knew this was going to be a big night.

The banging was interrupted by the sound of shouting, a man’s voice, a desperate man.

I moved on to my makeup. A long and thankless task, but one that needed to be done. I simply wasn’t myself if I didn’t wear makeup. No one deserved to see me without my war paint. Years of careful application had turned me into a master, an artist sending sweeping strokes over a canvas, paying little heed to the technique but knowing exactly what the outcome would be.

The banging began again several minutes later, followed immediately by the sound of shouting, screaming almost, a hoarse, desperate, pleading sound. It was distant, the storm drifting and not encroaching, but it still roared with the same intensity as before, if not more.

The noise gradually died down and I finished my makeup. I was ready to embrace the night. I gave myself one last look, tilted my head this way and that and admired how easily I had covered the many wrinkles, how expertly I made my tired, old eyes pop, how I added color to my thin, aging lips.

I stood slowly and headed for the door.