Therapy

She’s afraid of darkness and silence. Combined. Afraid to hear things, or see things that aren’t supposed to be there. But if she sleeps with the lights on, she wakes up exhausted. Fear imprisons, heavier than her blanket, tighter than her bra-strings. Sleep a luxury she cannot afford.
She turns on Coltrane. Silence lifts its shroud. She imagines instead herself creating those notes; eyes closed, mind at rest. Fingers moving… moving, soul following, or the other way around she can’t really tell nor care. Believes it so well it’s like a memory that she recalls. Sharp then blur. Sharpens and then blurs again. Fingers tapping her blanket, long after her mind falls asleep.
She wakes up exhausted.
Smiling.