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I don’t sleep the next night; not true sleep, anyway.

I float in the shallows of consciousness, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and the ghosts of semi-forgotten dreams. Each time I surface, it’s to the same soundtrack: the faint whir of the desktop fan and the soft, maddening silence of no new messages.

The cursor is still blinking

A little metronome marking my loneliness.

At 2:17 a.m., it finally happens.

Ping.

MoonDance77 has signed on.

I jerk upright like a marionette yanked by its strings. I cross the room in two long strides. The mouse trembles in my grip.

Her name glows green.

She’s back.

Before I can even summon a thought, the message window pops open.

MoonDance77: Still there?

I just stare at it for a second or three. Then type: I’m here.

MoonDance77: I didn’t mean to vanish like that.

Fang950: I figured you needed air.

MoonDance77: I did. But it’s not the same without you to talk to.

Whoa!

Fang950: That’s sweet of you to say.

She’s typing. Stops. Then types again.

MoonDance77: I’ve been going through some things. Something I can’t explain to anyone else. But with you, I feel like I could say it and not scare you off.

She has no idea how true that is.

I lean in closer to the screen, like I can get physically nearer to her through it. I feel every letter I type like it’s a piece of skin peeling away.

Fang950: Try me.

MoonDance77: I’m not normal, haven’t been for a quite a while. I just pretend well.

Fang950: I don’t want normal. I want real.

MoonDance77: Years ago, I turned into... something. Something else, something other.

I wait, my fingers hovering above the keyboard.

She’s never said it like that so clearly before. I feel a spike of electricity shoot up my spine.

Fang950: How long now?

MoonDance77: Six years. I don’t eat like I used to. I don’t sleep the same. I’m faster, stronger. I have this crazy inner alarm thing. My nails are super gross.

Actually, I had seen her nails and chose to ignore them. The nails, I know, are always a dead giveaway.

MoonDance77: My husband doesn’t like the new me. My kids don’t ask.

She’s onto me. She’s testing me.

Or maybe, just maybe, this is the moment we step out of the shadows together.

Fang950: You’re not alone.

MoonDance77: You’re one, too, Fang?

Fang950: I’m something. I’m afflicted, cursed, confused.

MoonDance77: Say no more. Are we crazy?

I let that sit.

Finally, I type: No, we are different.

MoonDance77: You sound like someone who’s been through it.

Fang950: I’ve been through it, broke open, and never put back together again.

MoonDance77: Do you believe in monsters?

The words glow on the screen, pulsing like an ember in the blackness.

My fingers hover, the cursor blinks.

Three breaths pass before I respond.

Fang950: Only the ones who don’t see themselves in the mirror.

MoonDance77 is typing…

MoonDance77: I resemble that remark.

Fang950: I know.

MoonDance77: You’re calling me a monster?

Fang950: Aren’t we all in this chatroom?

MoonDance77: My husband thinks I am. He’s cheating on me, you know. I’m sure of it. But I need proof. And when I get it, I just might kill them both.

Fang950: You don’t mean that.

MoonDance77: No, I don’t. But it’s going to royally suck.