Chamomile Tears

Reads: 57  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 12, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 12, 2018

A A A

A A A


Chamomile Tears

 

I lie awake looking at my phone in the dark, barely staving off what I know will come for me beyond the feeble, temporary salvation in my hands. 

I finally close it, thinking I'm tired enough to fall asleep right away.

Wrong.

 

They crouch through the dark, getting closer and closer. Their outlines, hazed by my desperate dissociation, look vaguely like knuckle tattoos and a clock that reads 3am. The one that finally leaps on top of me, crushing the air out of my lungs, is a skeleton I recognize immediately, and suddenly the wide frozen grin comes sharply into focus. He sits on my chest, force-feeding me all the parts of him I tried to shelve in a closet years ago. 

 

"Here, have this one," he says, opening my mouth and shoving one in that tastes like sour apple and mint. 

"And another," he says, holding up 16 voicemails to my ear. 

"Can't forget this one," he says, forcing my eyelids open to look into his squinty brown eye peeking over a changing room door.

"Ah-ah, you're not done yet," he says, inflaming my skin with carpet burn. 

 

I struggle to get up and flee, but I can only flip him off halfway before he simply adds more weight. All the weight he didn't want, sitting right there on my chest all at once. Just as I start to feel like I'm drowning, gasping for precious, precious change of environment, I summon up one last superhuman dose of strength and fling off the covers. I jump to my feet and pin him against the wall by the throat. 

 

"You're coming with me," I growl. "We are going to fucking sort this out."

 

I storm into the kitchen with him by the ankle in tow. He cackles maniacally, calling my bluff while I gather his kryptonite. A message to a friend, the soothing sound of desert rain on the roof, the kettle on. 

 

Then I sit down to type. His look changes to panic, terrified of the new manifestation I'm writing him into. I look him square in the eyes as I snatch back my breath, and methodically sip my chamomile-flavored tears.


© Copyright 2018 Wes Rodney. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: