Flipping the light switch up and down, back and forth a number of times in order to brighten the dimmed ceiling light at the center of my bedroom, I began the day as I had all others before. White walls empty of any life or decoration were bathed in a dull gray tint of morning rain. Suddenly, I feel trapped, as if the corners of the room are beginning to close in on me. Feet pounding against creaky floorboards carried me out of the house and down a slippery path. Oftentimes I find myself running. Running from death, from fear, from heavy clouds of depression that swallowed me up and spit me out to find a broken world, selfish in taking all those I once loved. Running, really, from myself. The landscape flashed by my peripheral vision as my speed increases, my body beating itself in rhythm against muddy ground. I’m climbing a mountain now, tall and steep. Quick and coordinated, my limbs sting not from the sharp wind and bullet-like pellets of rain that slap against my back, but a sort of pain that consumes my whole soul, begging it to keep going. Going, going, going away from this life I am forced to lead. Suddenly I fall, legs sprawled out in front of me. Autumn leaves made soft by water cushion beneath me, like a bed topped with a fluffy duvet. Staring upwards I see the sunset tones of thick fall trees. Sunset…sunset…I’m back, back at the ocean's edge with her. On a checkered picnic blanket, we laugh as a summer breeze blows straw-colored hair across her smiling face. Now we’re dancing, the aroma of vanilla wedding cake intoxicating us both with waves of pure serotonin. I feel a kick, a flutter of life and love inside her stomach, and as time passes, so too does my daughter grow older, skipping across the cornfields, she beckons. “Come, come play with me!’ she calls out. My wifes smile draws me in, begging me to come, to walk alongside her as we marvel at the perfection of our lives. We’re driving now, across a sunny road. My eyes flutter shut in contemptment, drifting off into a peaceful sleep. But as I once again become conscious, a swelling void grows inside my heart. As I look beside me, where once lay my family now is only rotting corpse. My own skin is punctured by the glass that once made up my windshield, but the discomfort of deep abrasions could not overcome me. I would not succumb to this pain, not melt away. I reach for a wrist, but feel no pulse. I am blinded by a shining light. I can hear them calling my name, pulling me up towards their dwelling place, but my eyes are glued shut and their voices fade away. Fading, fading, fading. And I awake once again, flipping the light switch up and down, back and forth a number of times in order to brighten the dimmed ceiling light at the center of my bedroom, doomed to live this day over and over, again and again, as I had every other day before.

As the moon passes over the sky, so too do her eyes, reservoirs of viridescence, flutter open for the evening, glints of the brightest white light dancing in the thin ringlets of hair that frame her face and cascade down her back, cheeks flushed with joy and smile soft with innocence. She’s pretty as a picture, my little sister. I relish in utter delight of having her beside me again, of climbing the branches of oak trees blanketed thickly with lush foliage that smelled of a soft breeze on a spring morning, a euphoric birdsong echoing in our little ears, dancing to a rhythm all our own. But as the sun begins to rise, as does it set on our sumptuous frolicing, ebullience sequestered by my own resentment of the strikingly perfect creature that stood before me. They say the singular emotion able to conquer jealousy is utmost love, but as I stare, unnerved at her bloodied body drifting downstream, and see the reflection of my grayed eyes more lifeless then her beaten corpse, I chuckle at the thought of just how false this statement could be. Softest soul squashed by sisterly psycopathy

My head pounds, my heart aches, my mind is filled with dread, on the brink overflowing, dousing me in icy cold liquid more repulsive than the dried and crusted blood on my blouse. And as I rock melodically, methodically back and forth on the edge of my cold blue seat, fluorescent bulbs and linoleum floors cast a spotlight on the others trapped in this panic room, this torture house. A man scans the screen of his phone with a beady, urgent gaze, fingers flying across a texting keyboard, sweat soaking through his business suit and seeping into the wrinkles of a sunken face. The glittering pink ribbons in the hair of a little girl begin to fall, but she notices not, tugging on a jacket sleeve, craving motherly attention from the dazed, hollow figure beside her who clutches on to intricate rosary beads for dear life. People paced in anxious strides, babies cried, nurses came and went. An aggressive lack of sleep turns the paging of doctors over a loudspeaker into a lyrical birdsong in my lulling mind. My red, pained eyes scan the tearstained faces, and as our gazes lock, eerily fixated on one another, for a moment we are a unit, together as one, thinking, hoping, praying, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Everything stops, then starts again, and I shake my slumped body out of oblivion. I need to do something, tap my foot, pull my hair, pick my skin, anything productive to stop my mind from catastrophizing to take me away from counting the seconds, minutes, hours that take drag on and on painted a dull black clock mocking me with all the passing time.