When I was a little girl, I well remember looking at the short hair of models on magazines covers and wishing my hair was short too. One day, I saw a pair of scissors on the study table my father used and decided to get a trim. My long, unruly black hair fell to the cold, hard tiles in few seconds in a few seconds. My mother forced me into my room. I held on to the legs of a huge wooden chair and threw a tantrum. My mother pulled me by the legs and dragged me into my into my room, slamming the wooden door at my tear stained face.
I sulked and sat at the edge of my bed. I looked around for entertainment and saw a mirror. I got up and stared at my reflection. I loved the edgy and short look. I posed and giggled at my silliness. The room was a mess, band posters filled up every inch of the walls. I soon collapsed out of utter exhaustion and fell asleep in the comfort of my bouncy bed.
A loud knocking noise woke me up. The moonlight shone bright onto my face, almost blinding me. Dark shadows of branches replaced the posters on the wall. I sat there, frightened. Then a comforting, unfamiliar presence. I looked around and saw nobody.
Till this day, I wonder whose presence I felt on that dark and terrifying night.