I scratch an itch–it won’t go away–I tossturngroanthrash against the cotton-thread prison shackle-sheets–GODDAMNIT–I rub my furiously tired eyes–I turn to read the numbers on the clock, the bright red glow mocks me and reminds me how many hours I wrestled with sleep (and how many times I slunk away defeated). I turn the red glow away, but there across the room, it illuminates a silhouette, an outline of a figure–am I asleep?–is this a dream?–“no” whispers the silhouette.
I leaned in closer to the mirror to get a better look at where I cut myself shaving when all of a sudden, my hand reached forward, broke through the glass, and sliced my throat with the razor. As my fingers fought the spurting blood and fumbled to close the wound, I couldn’t help but notice my reflection smile, lick the blood from the blade, and wave goodbye.
As I watched the surface of the water disappear into the distance, my only regret was that I was being dragged straight down and not pulled up and out. You never realize how much you love breathing until you can’t.
It is a strange sensation, one that I never felt before. Not necessarily his fingers wrapped around my throat, nor is it watching the air that once filled my lungs swirl around before me, instead it is the nothingness that follows.
“There’s someone else inside and they’re going to kill me,” she says after I ask her what’s wrong–but we’re clearly alone, I think to myself. Before I can ask where, she says, “In my h–SHUT UP CHRISTINE,” then after a pause, “there, that’s better.”
You want a two-sentence horror story? Imagine being trapped with a psychotic clown in a four by four by four foot box that is on fire suspended over a two thousand foot drop with no light inside and a hundred spiders crawling on your skin.
“The worst part of digging a grave,” he chided as I tossed the final shovel-full of dirt onto the pile, “is knowing that it’s yours.” He laughed at his joke, put the barrel against the back of my head, and pulled the trigger.