The faint ticks of the clock are all that separate my breathing and my slowing thoughts. My mother is screaming for me, yet, her cries are not hers. I realize the screams and terrors will break apart with the inner workings of the deepest cysts of my mind. The words don’t make sense to me, instead only relaying a certain feeling to my fingertips. A rough, cold feeling, dragging a hand over sandpaper. The sounds, however, are much clearer. With each, I hear the gods in tears, the weeping sound of divine beings, the dying sounds of a celestial messiah. However, with my physical presence, the sounds of my mother are growing louder, more desperate. It is taking all of my possible strength to remain still, writing these words. The motions to create the letters are becoming foreign, unfamiliar. The letters themselves are blending into each other, the words staring at me. My mother is screaming. The clock continues to tick, I don’t know when it will stop. I hope it will stop.
I hope it will stop.