Nightfall
by Nichole Nicholson

"I'm an alien. Yep, that's right. I'm an out-of-this-world-U.F.O.-flying alien. I know what your thinking. You're thinking, 'Yeah. Uh-huh. You're and alien and I can fly.' Well, you must be able to fly. You are like most people. A non-believer that is. That's okay. I never once expected you to believe me. The other doctors don't either.

"My planet was so beautiful. It was far better than Earth. And that's not meant to be insulting. It's just the truth. The whole planet was covered with wonderful tall woods; woods that you could get lost in for hours and never fret, until nightfall.

"Nightfall was a bad time. The trees would even shiver from their branches down to their roots, at the thought of it. Every flower closed its beautiful face in horror, as the sun kissed the horizon once before it final surrender of warmth. The very moon trembled in its perch; watching the ground with the same dread as everything else.

"They were never afraid in vain. Monsters that radiated death and destruction ruled the night. Any unfortunate creature caught outside after the last fading pink left the inky sky would be prey to their searching, hungry fangs.

"They were always hungry. Their jaws, working in anticipation of a bloody meal, would snap at anything that moved; spitting out vegetation. Their hungry howls could be heard in the deepest caves. The howls tore through your brain saying, 'Come to me. Feed me. It will not hurt. I promise.' 'Help me,' they would call.

"That was their magic. Such beautiful cries pleading for help; help so easy to give. Taking a step out of shelter would help them. It would help their sharp, fast jaws to snag a tender piece of meat to feed the bottomless pit that resided in their bellies. To help them was to die.

"Maybe that's what I was longing for; death. A simple way to end the problem's of one's small life-time. Or maybe it was the call; the call for help that was so chillingly beautiful it could make a strong man weak. Either are logical explanations, but maybe I was just a silly boy showing an act of bravado to prove something; to myself or otherwise.

"For reasons unknown to even me, I took a fateful step from my humble abode. Fear tried to reason with me; push me back in the dwelling. I wouldn't listen though. My head rushed with thoughts of heroism and popularity. My veins coursed with adrenaline that made my heart jump and jerk, and my eyes twitch at every movement.

"Soon my eyes didn't know where to turn. Movement was all around me. Blurry, dark shapes made ever-shrinking circles around me; closing in. Green eyes sparkled at me from the light of the moon.

"The green eyes sparkled with a lusty beauty, but they were so cold. My skin prickled, and my bones froze under their steely glare. Hate was in those eyes; irrational, undirected hate. Cold hate. Not hate warm with rage and anger, but hate devoid of emotion or feeling.

"The eyes burned into me until the dank fur rubbed against my body, making me sweat with dread and body heat. The jaws snapped at me; teasing me. They had one, but they had to make me afraid first.

"It was really the fear they fed on, I believe. The fear I felt for them. Not the kind of fear you get on a carnival ride; real fear, the kind of fear that made you wet and soil yourself.

"I did both of those things before I felt the first yellow fangs at my throat. They pierced with such dreadful ease. It didn't even hurt very much. I seemed to be held in a colorless mass of emotion and energy. Then I found myself here," little Bobby said. The words were flowing, unconfused.

"Is that what happened, Bobby? Really?" I asked. I watched his small, ten-year-old features distort with fear, and he started throwing things; pillow and lamp hit the ceiling at the same moment and shards of glass fell down like rain.

I picked up my telephone. "Nurse Beckman? I need some sedative, a straight-jacket, and someone to escort Bobby to padded room one-eleven," I said. "Please hurry."

"Yes, ma'am," she said.

Bobby started gnawing at his wrists; no doubt trying to pull out his fresh stitches. Nurse Beckman and two white-uniformed men came charging in. The men wrestled the young boy into the yellow straight-jacket and the nurse shot the sedatives into his tender neck. The two men led Bobby out the door; the screaming echoing behind them. Nurse Beckman gave me a quick, uncertain hug; tears streaming down her flushed face.

"What happened to him, doctor?" she asked.

"The police say that he was subjected to the worst child abuse recorded in this stat. Poor kid got raped, battered, and yelled at until he created a very fragile separate reality. I just stepped on it," I said.

"I hope you can help him. You are one of the best psychologists in the whole country," she said hopefully. It was false hope. I nodded anyway and turned my head to look out through the window just as the last pink left the sky. A hungry howl tore through my brain saying,"Come to me. Feed me. It will not hurt. I promise."

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