Pushing the pram late at night helps me think. Crisp air, and quiet streets. Nothing beautiful anymore, grey covered in black residue of smoke. But the night air is clear.
My spouse and I agreed, the baby sleeps better after a walk. We also agreed a route would have to be established, just in case. The best lit was agreed upon before I had walked it. Every night I head out, and forget to mention this one street gives me the heeby jeebies, but I go anyway because we agreed. I’m nothing if not dependable.
The street is the quietest. Believe it or not, it’s also the cleanest. There is a statue in the middle of the square. It’s a simple stone sculpture of a man standing. He’s not famous, he isn’t doing anything interesting, standing with his feet together.
But as I walk, his eyes follow me. As I pass, his head turns. Lately I’ve gotten the impression it’s not me he watches, but the baby.
How do I tell my spouse, a statue threatens me and moves on it’s own? How are eyes threatening?
Yet every night as I walk passed, I force myself not to run. I try not to look, to check if it has shifted. And tonight when I looked, it stood as it always did accept it was off it’s podium, it’s shoulders squared with the pram.
We’re changing the route tomorrow. Screw the shame.
Kary's Nightmare Fuel 
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