The Night I First Touched the Living Darkness
It was August 27, 1998, in my cramped apartment in Amery, staring out the bedroom window. I’d always loved the night. Lights twinkling like guardian angels. But that summer, something changed. A blackness crept in from the north. No stars. No moon. Just void. Swallowing the sky.
Nights blurred. I’d watch from the balcony, cigarette trembling in my fingers. Heart pounding like a drum. That first real pull hit when I grabbed the binoculars. Stupid move. Focused in, and there it was. Filaments wriggling. Bulging masses, fleshy, smoky. Alive. Teeming like parasites under a microscope. My breath caught. Sweat beaded on my skin. Fear twisted with this sick curiosity. Like waiting for your first kiss, but darker. Forbidden.
The Approach: Heart Racing in the Dark
I slammed the shutters. Locked everything. But sleep? No chance. Lay there, sheets sticking to me, pulse racing. What if it came closer? Touched me? The thought terrified me. Aroused me. That unknown itch. By morning, gone. Blue sky mocked me. But evening? It returned. Hungrier.
Drove out once. Tested it. In Mérielles, clear skies. Then boom—blackness swallowed it too. Car lights dimmed. Shadows absolute. Gunned it home, hands slick on the wheel. Back inside, barricaded. Lights blazing. Waited. Nothing some nights. Slept open-windowed, moon kissing my skin. Teased me with normalcy.
Then it happened. Fell asleep early. Woke to pitch. Clock barely glowed. Two a.m. Room drowning in black. Felt it first—a brush. Soft, insistent. Like fingers trailing my arm. Heart slammed. Froze. No turning back. It was here. In my space. Crawling.
The Touch: Sensations Explode
Limit crept inward. Lamp flickered weak. Stepped toward the door. One meter—light like a match. Another—ember glow. Hall light? Pathetic. Fifty centimeters max. Felt the wriggles now. On my hand. Leg. Warm, pulsing. Not cold void. Alive. Touching back. Thousands of tiny caresses. Electric. Skin prickled. Breath hitched. Pulse thundered in my ears, groin.
Paralyzed thrill. Brushed my thigh. Slid higher. Invasive, intimate. First contact raw. Exploded inside—fear melting to heat. New sensations flooded. Slick tendrils probing. Heartbeat synced with the throb. Nervous fumbles in dark—hands grasping nothing, everything. Climax of terror. It enveloped. Groused over bare skin. Pyjamas clung damp. Sweaty, shaking. Pushed boundaries. Broke me open.
Dawn ripped it away. Sunlight stabbed. Survived. But changed. Innocence gone. Tasted the forbidden. That living night owned a piece of me. Fingers still twitch remembering. Wrote this in pajamas, bottled it for the Seine. Tonight, it returns. Full. I’m ready. Or not. Paul HURDIN.
