Screams can be heard closing in. Those Piercing pustules that pulsate from the past. They echo three times, before being usurped by interior pent up angst. A pure red fog of hot, bitter fury.
Where were the smiles of yesterday? How can the cushion comfort of Thursday be replaced by razor wired thought only a day later?
Four letter words screech into the room next; smashing singing bobbleheads and candy coloured yesteryears.
There’s only one place to be: under the covers.
It’s dark, stifling and hard to breath there, but, curled foetal, it’s safe.
Or so he’d like to hope.
Once under, with darkness creating starker images behind his eyelids, he sees death.
Not his own.
That wouldn’t be allowed.
He witnesses the diabolical death of all the rest.
He sees their demise, but it’s his own damnation that he has to endure. Tied to the stocks of his own subjugation, crying out for gentle hands to hush the rotten fruit throwers away.
Yet, just as he feels the pummelling cease, it’s replaced by rancid past failures within his cocoon. He can’t dodge the flashbacks that shoot out like poisoned picture darts to paralyse his hope.
Not even flaccid unconsciousness, as he becomes drunk on his own emitted carbon dioxide, can save him from himself.
He must formulate his own free thought evasion and immediate evacuation.
He must find the white rabbit and swallow it whole.
Surely only after such gruesome gobbling of his own gangrenous ghost will he begin to be again.