The hour hand of the clock brushed slightly past the number three.  It was almost 3:40 AM, and the calm, and relief of morning still seemed no closer than it had at midnight.  In an effort to assure herself that she still knew how to read, and continued to find solace in the escape routes offered by text on a page, the girl fought off the fatigue of the day in order to finsh her book.  She did, and yes, she thought to herself, I certainly still do like to read. She also thought, I could write this book.  The latter was an afterthought, but something which had been running through her head since the moment the author had unveiled her signature suggestions for how to ensure that your child becomes seemingly successful, while still apparently staying a virgin: overly-protective parents, their subsequent praise, unfortunate body proportions, and love of cats.  Nevertheless, this woman was famous, and deservedly-so.  The girl’s transient thought of becoming a comedy writer for a successful show dissipated slowly, as only a night of sleeplessness can allow, and thought, this is a good place to end the evening.  She felt satisfied, and exhausted.

She turned the lights off.  The absoluteness of darkness that now engulfed her swiftly rushed towards her, as if jumping down her throat.  Blind, and helpless, suddenly, a creak from inside the hallway—the first image which appeared? The zodiac killer.  Just a stoutly man in a black suit, pacing, step by step, into her room.   She imagined the flash of slightly rusted silver that would gleam from the edge of the knife’s blade before it would be plowed through her torso.  No, she thought.  I am twenty-two.  This is absurd.  She turned to her left side, grabbed her stuffed animal bear from the floor with her toes.  The sleeve of her eyelid practically hugging the brown, nearly black irises underneath, she begged her mind to take her away from this obscured recess that was her room.  She thought of her future as the next Tina Fey.  Do I like cream puffs enough? she wondered.