It doesn’t matter that I’m a grown woman, or that I live in a pretty safe neighborhood, or that I know the odds of me dying an agonizing and torturous death at the hands of a serial killer are .0000001%.
I still get scared at night.
Every bump is the sound of a crazy man breaking into my house. Every creak is the weight of his footsteps on the stairs. Every flicker out of the corner of my eye is his shadow moving towards me. And even with my eyes squeezed shut, every breath I take is his breath on my face.
I really need to start writing romance.