The Void
I don’t remember how long I’ve been here for.
It could have been forever, or maybe I just got here; I wouldn’t know.
My eyes are tired. Perceiving the darkness is difficult, If you can call it that. It’s beyond my comprehension. I know there’s nothing there, it’s all dark, but that’s not all there is to it. Bright, hot, flashing colors exist somewhere, outside of our three dimensions. My head is spinning.
I’m so tired…
The white hot sound grates against my ears. A low rumbling accompanies it. The sound builds forever. I have a defense mechanism for this one.
Music plays. It’s loud, but anything to drown out the droning, grating tone. It doesn’t matter what genre. I’ll listen to it as it cycles through playful ukuleles, rhythmic rock, and sorrow symphonies. All of them sound fine; But I can still sense it. That repugnant sound. I don’t think I hear it, but it’s there.
The music fades out, and the droning slowly gets louder, as the last sweet note falls only to the back of my mind. A tune I’ll reminisce about, until next time. Playing that one set of lyrics, over, and over.
The tone makes me dizzy. I’ve learned how to handle it by now. But it makes me tired.
I’m so tired…
The flavor of my teeth sits on my taste buds. I’m biting down on my tongue. The edges at least. My mouth is too narrow, and my jaw is locked shut. I don’t notice it much most of the time, but it’s unnerving. God, I’m tired.
I’m so tired…
My nose burns.
I can’t smell anything. Not until an invisible cloud wafts by. This happens every once in a while, it tends to catch me off guard. I’m not sure if I’ve always had this ineptitude for smell, or if it’s the effect of something recent. I didn’t notice it before, but apparently people can smell things that I can’t.
Food doesn’t taste the same anymore. It’s unremarkable. I know what I used to like, but it doesn't taste the same. Food was comfort, the idea of it might still be, but I can’t find as much joy in it as I once did. I just float here. Sitting in my apathy.
I’m so tired…
My whole body is tense. The muscles in my upper torso ache. My skin burns from discomfort. The pressure is crushing.
It’s suffocating.
A boa constrictor prepares its meal.
It wraps around the neck of its prey, limiting its voice,
around its chest, limiting its breath,
around its legs, limiting its movement as it squirms to try and get away. But the boa constrictor loves to see you suffer, so uncomfortable in your own body. It would rather not kill you, because it can feed off of this amusement forever.
Breathing takes effort,
walking takes effort,
talking takes effort. It’s doable,
but it’s so tiring.
I’m so tired.
Elizabeth Dotson is an upcoming writer and artist from Cleveland, Ohio. She writes predominately surrealism with undertones of horror. Her interests beyond writing include theater, visual arts, and music. She hopes to one day produce and animate her own cartoon show.
