THE WALKING DEAD

327am to 439am.

A hot cup of coffee. A cigarette and a head full of hell.

Another night and 1258am comes again. The screams are still as loud. The hands still grip tightly and the knuckles white. The breathing still gasping and the pounding and hammering still sharply hits my ear drums. I see details that a nightmare usually doesn't show. I felt the softness of the sweat soaked cotton. The coldness of the room. The darkness of the grey light. The glistening knife. The aching swollen wound.

The victim screams but does not run. But instead holds onto the knife even tighter like a scabbard refusing to let go. Like a tango, the dance goes on. Moving apart and coming together. Hesitation. Eagerness. Reluctance. Compulsion. Coming in waves. Saying no. Saying yes. Saying no more. Saying more. Push. Pull.

Guilty before. Guilty after. But not during.

I am told to forget and I tell myself the same. Leave the pain behind. Cast it aside. Move on.

I do that.

For a minute. An hour. Half a day. I fill my time with work. With stress. With pressure. My mind is both acutely alert and plainly dull. I switch from complete control to absolute paralysis where I suddenly stop and stare at the ground as people walk by skipping left and right to avoid me in the middle of their path.

I try to stall the time for time. But the clock does not respect my kind request. It will bring 1257am to the fore and tells me I have 60 seconds left to breathe before I become the unwilling witness again.

This waking nightmare mercifully ends only when the knife finally reaches deep enough to reach the core.

Flailing arms. Muscles tighten. A scream. An exhausted final breath before complete silence reigns again.

The victim solemnly apologises for my death. For my execution. For the slow drowning of my soul. She prays for me as she holds my head beneath the waterline.

Then she looks me steely in the eye. I shall see you soon again. Come and see me kill you again in 24 hours time.

... 

It did not happen if you do not think about it. Do not touch the wound. Be strong. Like a child, I'm softly chided to close my eyes so that I can't be found if I cannot see.

I do not need a burial plot or grave. I carry my tombstone in my head.

I am the walking dead.

...

I am #ʙᴇɴᴛᴇʜ, #IMakᴇItMakᴇSᴇɴsᴇ & I run the #LBFalumni. I regularly have #ReflectionsWithCoffᴇᴇ