Fear is a good motivator.

Hand made into a fist knocked on my old, wooden door; it was loud, life threatening and it woke me from a deep sleep. A deep sleep that only God himself could wake me from. Panic sprouted within like nature birthing new plants; it seized me like a man guilty of a crime of passion and shoved me in dark corners; it held me against my will to be courageous.

I was running scared in my own skin; wishing in that finite moment, of several possibilities, that I'd be a different person. Someone much stronger, with the courage of an ancient warrior who subdued dragons with a swing of his sword. Because, then, my heart would not be thumping this hard leading me to think I might die before my legs, in their attempt to be strong, brace the old wooden door.

'A man has to do what a man has to do!' words as old as my door took a dive into the dark corners and liberated the bravery in me. Confident like a mouse on a food expedition, my feet still wobbled and my arrogance exalted on the achievement of three steps. The knocks grew more violent each second and I was, at the moment burying myself in thoughts that would only kill me in my sleep. But who was I not to wet my loose-fitting pajamas when the door forcefully swung open. It was the ghost of the woman next door who passed away three days ago. She had returned to remind me to feed her, evil cat who I swear was bewitched by the devil himself, and many times robbed me of my dinner on those late nights I returned from work.

I hate that cat! Oh dear Lord, I did. Its meow sounded like a woman saturated with sexual pleasure. One look at the cat and you could tell it possessed terrible intentions.

I was lost from all the numbness in my skin and her ghostly hands hitting hard against my round chocolate cheeks felt like air beating against my chest. She was serious, yet I was still in shock, gazing at her eyes wide as if the dead had just come back to life. The dead had come back to life and my pajamas was soaked.