A Skeletal Embrace | Flash Fiction

The skeletal arms of the night embrace me, withholding sleep from my restless mind. The neon glow of my watch glares at me, like a coldblooded laugh.

1:23

Its display snaps off again. On my back I gaze up at the black ceiling. It looks like the inside of a beast’s belly. The juices eat away, eat up my mind. I call the beast by name, “Hello, despair. Do I taste good to you?” I grin at my own dark humor. The night just stares back at me, unimpressed. I shift my head. My stiffening hair crackles, my damp pillow squishes. Inside, my wide awake heart begins a quivering beat.

1, the matching gravestones in the cemetery; a life lived and died together. Check my watch again; 1:25. Another beat, like a ticking bomb inside.

2, the unanswered texts. My chest is burning, I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Lungs heave ragged. A giant must be sitting on my chest. My aching eyes strain, but nothing is visible in the inky blackness.

3, his eyes, looking away. An itch on the inside begins to spread, like my skin is a shell that must burst. I writhe, trying to escape the disgustion of me.

4, whispers behind hands, scornful, triumphant glances. Hot rain burns down my face. Perhaps there is a storm, is that why it’s so dark in here? Two persistent streams broil out my eyes. I can feel Despair’s juices inside my soul. My chest heaves to gasp under the weight of the sitting giant. I look at my watch again; 1:29. Like a condemning judge, my heart pounds the final beat.

5, he will NEVER love you.

I hear a wailing. Outside, there must be an ambulance passing by. But no, the sound stays; it grows. It proceeds from my own bed. Suddenly I am aware of a knife in my chest. It plunges deep into my heart, and I watch with a pathetic horror as the invisible night hand twists it for good measure.

Poor me. No wonder it’s crying so hard; its heart is being ripped from its chest.

I feel a deadness pervade my being, like lead on the eyes and ice in the heart. The tears stop flowing. The gasps stop ripping. Out of the stillness a poisoned flower blossoms in my soul. It pulls my eyebrows down in a dangerous apathy of anger. “What does it matter?” I ask the mocking darkness, voice as hard as the blade in my chest.

Out in the hallway the old grandfather clock rings as if in response.

Bong!

Bong!

Bong!

Bong!

Bong!

That was it, of course! I rub my bleary eyes and check my watch again. It is not 1, but 5.

“It’s almost morning.” I whisper for myself and all the demons to hear.

In the darkness of my room, a faint glimmer begins to grow at the window. This is what matters! The night will always come to an end, each dawn brings a new day and in each day there will be enough strength to carry on. Who knows what might come?

Into the silent darkness, a startling sound penetrates. It warms the air and sends all the monsters fleeing; my wounded heart laughs.

 

Author's Note

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