how long do you think it will be?
I am standing in a doorway. I am blocking passage through the door. I grip the doorframe so hard I think my fingernails are going to bleed. My fingernails are bleeding. The blood drips drips drips drips drips drips
The room behind me is where it wants to be but I can’t make anything out inside. It’s too dark. Likewise, the hallway outside is too dark. I hate the dark. One of my least favorite things about the apartment complex we lived in back in Colorado was that outside the apartment, during night, it was near pitch black on a cloudy night.
The woods would choke the light out of the street lamps not fifteen feet from the lamps themselves, and walking in between those bubbles of orange light felt like you were slipping into a void. To step out of the circle was to step into it’s realm and it would follow you immediately, as soon as you’d started walking to the next lamp.
There would be no sound or smell or sight to accompany it, but you could feel it orbiting around you, behind you, like a weight tied to your shoulder, demanding that you look. Demanding. And of course you do not look. If you look, it wins. It takes you.
If you let go of the doorframe, it takes you.
There is an immense weight in the hallway, a cold spot, a supervoid couched in the dark like the inner petals of a flower. Like God poked a pencil through the fabric of the universe. It sinks toward me or do