sombre

larkspur eulogies

4:56 PM — friday october 22nd

i sit. i count. one, two, three, four. fingers tapping against my thigh, rhythm steady, heartbeat in my head faster, pounding, relentless. i breathe in, sharp and jagged, like glass in my lungs. one, two, three, four. everything is precise, it has to be, but i can’t stop the tremor in my hand, the twitching. if i stop, if i break the pattern, something terrible will happen. i don’t know what, but it’s there, waiting, lurking just behind the walls.

i get up. walk to the window, close it. open it again. close. open. one, two, three, four. i do it because i have to, because if i don’t, if i miss a beat, the air will turn thick, choking. my body will unravel, bones unknitting, skin loosening like thread pulled too tight. i’ll fall apart. so i keep going. open, close. open, close.

the room shifts around me, or maybe i’m the one shifting, but it all looks wrong, feels wrong. the corners too sharp, the shadows too long. i can’t tell if they’re moving or if it’s my mind stretching, bending, breaking. i hear a sound, low, distant, like a murmur under the floorboards. i listen, strain to hear, but there’s nothing. or maybe there is. i can’t trust my own ears anymore. can’t trust anything.

one, two, three, four.

my chest tightens, the space around me shrinking, the ceiling pressing down. i’m drowning in it, in the stillness, in the waiting. the clock ticks but the time doesn’t move. the walls breathe but i can’t. my skin crawls. i scratch, nails digging, red lines crisscrossing like fault lines on my arm. it helps, a little. but not enough.

i need it to stop. the noise. the stillness. the feeling that something is coming, something i can’t see, but i know it’s there. just out of reach, just beyond the door. the door that i’ve locked, twice, three times. but i have to check it again. because if i don’t, it’ll get in.

so i stand, walk to the door. one, two, three, four.