A turning point

Time is perhaps the most sacred thing, at least for me. Take 3:33, for example—the turning point when night begins to turn into morning, when light slowly begins to displace darkness.

My watch must tell the time with impeccable precision so I can hide and protect myself from the enraged Thing that awakens at this very moment. It wanders around the apartment, throwing my things around, breaking dishes, and knocking on the door, emitting hellish screams, like a possessed child in an exorcism movie. Of course, it's not omnipotent and can't get past the barricaded door, but just in case, I hide in the closet and pray that it doesn't catch me—after all, dawn is still a long way off. At dawn, it will leave, warning me with a final, piercing scream—that's the agony it expresses. At times, when the fear subsides, I feel pity for him.

I've read about souls condemned to eternal torment in hell. Some nights, they break free from their confinement and wander the earth, scurrying quietly among people, making no noise. But the time comes, and some of them realize: there's nothing to lose, the inevitable will happen, their time is running out; then they begin to rage, destroy everything around them, and even kill... And then dawn comes, and the first rays of the sun incinerate their monstrous visage. The soul is sent back to hell for another round of suffering. The cycle repeats.

I don't know what it is, but it's been terrorizing me for two weeks now. I hope it will finally go away. And if it doesn't? I'm thinking: it's summer now, the sun rises early—but what will happen in late fall and winter?

I have to leave this house...