It's pitch black as far as the eye can see. The light that once illuminated the emotionless abyss is gone, put out by a sudden gust of despair. The darkness envelopes all within it in a veil of harboured pain.
And I sit in the center of it all, controlling the abyss like a puppeteer controls their marionette. I pull a string and the air is clouded with anxiety, almost too suffocating to breathe.
And all I want is the sweet embrace of death.
So what strings do I pull for the cold, prickly sensation that comes with the victory of dying?
The looped rope hanging from the ceiling.
YOU ARE READING
My Demons
RandomA set of little, dark stories describing how I feel or what I am thinking. Some are really short. Trigger Warning.
