He had a deep-rooted fear of the sky. Wind scared him. Trees terrified him. A thunderstorm could practically paralyze him.
He wasn't always like this.
Age often brings with it odd phobias. As the years pass, one witnesses many things, and makes a quiet mental note of all of them.
In time, those horrors from the past take root and blossom into full-fledged anxiety and panic.
Wind, storms, and even the trees - these made sense. One good storm could bring a tree down on his house. Or his neighbor's. He no longer had the strength to remove the trees, and didn't have the funds to pay a professional to do the job.
But the sky?
Even on a clear, sunny day - looking up at the sky caused dread. He noticed the deepening blue knowing that just beyond was the void of space.
Nothing was coming from there - was it?
He wasn't concerned with aliens or meteors. He doubted a species advanced enough to reach us would want anything to do with us.
A meteor large enough to do serious, existential damage? Not a damned thing anyone could do about it.
What was it in the sky that could initiate a panic attack?
Would he ever know?
The night sky wasn't as bad.
Too much light pollution.
On a good night, he could see the moon, the North star, and maybe make out the big dipper.
Under the right conditions, he could recognize little dots of light as specific planets.
Night time was quieter. Fewer fools about.
The people of the night always had a purpose, unlike the day people.
Day people buzzed around like aimless bees, and would sting as fiercely.
The night people found comfort in the shadows.
They could quietly go about the business of whatever they felt needed to be done.
Some sat quietly in a bar or tavern, trying to ply their memory to either forget or remember.
Some simply followed the old rule.
The night people's job was to take money from the day people.
It was simple.
A windy night didn't seem to bother him - unless it was an obvious terror.
The sound of trees being ripped apart in a strong wind would scare anyone who was paying attention.
A clap of thunder followed by a flash of lightning, brightening the night sky for a brief moment - that would definitely catch his attention.
Sleep had never come easily. As he grew older, it sometimes didn't come at all.
So he would walk.
The streets were mostly quiet.
The occasional car.
The occasional night person.
He was old, and so mostly ignored by all.
His back no longer straight and his step slower and more unsure.
He was a figure to be pitied or ridiculed by those in the night.
But if he had been, no one gave any sign.
It was a cool, humid night when he killed the wino.
Such people were as common in the dark as birds in the light.
He'd offered a sad story and a request for some loose change.
The quiet rebuff was met with anger.
His hand felt for the aged gun in his pocket.
Harsh, slurred words, followed by an unsteady approach.
The crack from his pistol, held in a trembling hand, momentarily disturbed the darkness.
The wino simply dropped.
All went silent again.
He waited.
No one came running.
No one shouted.
After processing his action, he just walked away.
He went home and slept.
Soundly. Peacefully.
For the first time in ages.
He woke to a new fear.
Responsibility.
Would he be caught?
What would happen then?
He watched the morning news.
No mention of it.
The broadcast spoke of politics, local happenings, weather, sports, and a story of a house fire.
That was all.
The fear clung to him for weeks.
And then it let go.
Not freedom - just a feeling of acknowledgement and a new level of distrust.
The wino wouldn't be his last.
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