A morning short after a morning shot.
The Night audio:
Staring into the light of his phone, sleep was eluding Sawyer. It was three in the morning. He rummaged the bedside table for relief.
He was huddled under the covers, flicking emptily between shopping emails, the news, and mindless celebrity gossip. He felt an overbearing sense of unease and chaos. The consumption was proving to be a pointless distraction.
It was as if he’d been stalked, today and almost every other day for the last year or so. An invisible intruder managing to enter his home night after night and violate him. Ripping into his mind, merciless in its goal, as he lay. The comfort that had been his sanctuary—his bed, time that was his only, the part of life he cared for—destroyed.
How could he be this weak? How was he allowing this? Why was he powerless?
Questions, he knew no answers.
His jaw clenched and another silent cry fell into the blackhole of the night.
His mind captained a ship that wouldn’t steer. A crewless mess with a wayward fate.
Maybe he was going overboard with things. He had certainly thought about it.
The warmth vanished. Chills swept through him and droplets of cold sweat appeared over his naked body. He was shaking. Shallow breaths misted the screen in front of him as his torso tightened. Anxious eyes moved abruptly. Exhausted arms wrapped around the bolster as he buried himself deep under the covers.
Except for the light eminating from his phone, everything was black.
Like the joke of a life he was living.
Darkness so easily manifested.
His humour had graduated to a level of bleakness that mirrored his outlook on life. It accorded pitiful dividends: the occasional, disingenuous half-smile of resignation, sanction to fill his lungs for just another day more.
Unsteadiness took hold for a second. The murder of crows he had summoned had arrived. Engulfing his mind in a cloak of black. Gifting him with wings, just as he had imagined. He would fly. Waves of euphoria like nothing he’d felt rushed at him.
Warm benevolent hands greeted his face with tenderness, brushing away stray hairs on his face. Tears fell for the smiling assassin.
The day would break again tomorrow.
But tonight, the night was over.
He couldn’t tell how much time had passed.
It didn’t matter.
There were black birds singing.
Suddenly inspired Writing that can be taken multiple ways is how I’ve always wanted to write. I feel that everyone comes at the world from a different perspective. Who’s to say why we think the way we think? Why we feel the way we do—differently, uniquely?
Each perspective is like a pixel in a photo that no one will ever see. To present that there is one ‘right way’ for everyone, one hue in a spectrum of infinite colours, is hubris, judgmental—but that’s just this human’s opinion though. 🙂
Everyone has their reasons. Whatever their reasons.
AudioME: Quick Cover Blackbird