Stop it.
Stop it.
My whisper feels like a Shakespearean heartbeat, but it breaks when a lamp shatters. The light goes out and it becomes dark.
Stop it.
I dare not tiptoe nor make a sound. My stomach may growl but I would not feed it.
The telephone makes inhuman beeps that sound pathetic at a time of sloshing nerves. It stops. Then starts again.
Breath sighs and my whisper continues, Stop it stop it stop it.
The heartbeat. The blood flow. A broken artery in which all of the angry blood seeps out in one distressed spurt, when choked bubble of sick red.
Staunch it. Stop it.
Voices are lowered.
I hope for the best.
Author notes
"I never even got to see them. Ever."
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Panic attack?
I know that feeling.
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That's not actually what it's about, although I could see why you'd think that. My imagery is often unsettling.
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