It Dwells

It came only after her breath had steadied into the long deep rhythm of sleep. Dark fingers crept along her jaw, ebony limbs slid over her torso. A blank, empty visage nestled itself between my face and hers.

“She doesn’t love you, you know.”

I didn’t say anything in reply. Please, please let me sleep.

“She only feels sorry for you.”

I turned away, carefully, trying not to wake her. The low whisper continued.

“If you died, she wouldn’t have to feel guilty about leaving you.”

Go away. Let me sleep!

I felt its fetid breath on my cheek. I felt it’s tongue slithering against my ear. I tried to ignore it, but the whispers cut through my resistance. They were undeniable. I threw back the blankets and went out to apartment balcony. I sat on the wooden bench swing. The florescent light overhead was calm and did not crackle or waver. The stable glow soothed me, stabled me.

After a few moments, my loathing slithered up beside me.

“She never loved me anyway.”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.