Too Early to Cry-When our fears take shape

A glimpse through the shutters

A cool breeze slips through the half-open shutters, carrying with it comforting scents of damp earth, oregano, and fermented fruit. I don’t have the strength to turn off the ceiling fan. My eyes close. Suddenly, the yelps of jackals burst out in a series of hysterical laughs that end in wails. They awaken in me an unfamiliar anxiety.

There weren’t so many jackals when we first moved to this village. One summer night, they emerged from nowhere. At first I mistook them for a group of mischievous teenagers, but their persistence unsettled me, and I finally guessed their true nature. I rarely saw them, yet imagined them frolicking among the trees — glad that such free, untamed beings still existed at the edge of our civilization, indifferent to our fences and laws.

But tonight, I want to shout at them to be quiet. I could — as I’ve done before to protect my hens — run after them in my pajamas, wielding a stick, and chase them off. My timid dog would follow reluctantly, barking bravely to make her presence known.

I suddenly understand why these jackals frighten me. A few weeks ago, I had a nightmare so horrifying that I felt guilty for having dreamt it. Sirens had wailed, and terrible explosions tore apart the morning calm. A swarm of agile, muscular men breached the fence. In an ecstasy of hatred, they set houses on fire, shot the elderly, raped young women, slaughtered entire families, kidnapped children, and tortured infants. The earth drank the blood and the tears. The air filled with a nauseating stench — the smell of burned flesh. Hundreds of decapitated, desecrated, defiled bodies twisted in the agony of unbearable suffering. Details so atrocious I don’t want to hear them, say them, or write them. So many victims that it would take volumes to speak of them all. Their faces haunt me.

How could I have invented such horrors? I toss and turn, unable to sleep as the hours stretch on, suffocating and heavy. I long to recover my innocence, the life before — still difficult, but quieter. A time when our enemies failed more often, when we felt protected. Back then, the jackals were merely wild dogs emboldened by nightfall, creatures who, freed from our presence, indulged in carefree revelry. A laughing, untamed pack who, though cruel — their prey’s dying screams sometimes woke me — killed only to feed themselves.

The cruelty of beasts gives way, at dawn, to that of humankind. Or rather, to my imagination. For such horrors can’t truly exist… can they? They must belong to another age.

The jackals, who until now had stayed at a distance, gather beneath my window. They must have sensed me. I hesitate to flee… The shutters in the other rooms are also half-open. I try to reassure myself: these usually timid animals will stay outside. Yet logic dissolves as I listen to their wicked laughter.

They attack all at once. They bite the metal shutters and tear off the slats. Their claws scrape the glass until it shatters under the pressure. Their breath releases clouds of flame: the walls blacken, the furniture catches fire. They are not animals, but monstrous beings consumed by vile impulses — hatred of others, lust for pain, pleasure in destruction. I cannot escape these enemies who follow me even into my dreams. My only hope is to die quickly.

Dear reader,

Forgive this story — darker than usual.

Life does not come without pain. May yours remain ordinary.

Until next time,

Laurence