From my vantage point I feel madness creep closer. It inches towards me as the clock hands twitch onwards and I will myself to retreat, to maintain a safe distance. To protect my wit.
She whispers to me with every minute that passes, the dark tendrils of her voice assailing my sanity and pleading me to join her in oblivion. On my best days I recognise the pressure of her will and untangle her poisoned twines from my mind. On my worst days I long to plunge into emptiness and despair. Sleep brings no relief, my dreams are of stumbling collapses towards a chasm so cavernous that malevolent gravity pulls me towards its depths. I know she’s in there, my despair enabler. A step too close and I’d nosedive into extinction and even though I long for nothingness, I do not want that.
My collapsed expression flashes intermittently from the darkened train windows as I journey to another day of unremarkable tedium. My fellow commuters wear the same expression as we line up, suspended in our tubular procession. I watch them as they descend inwardly, sinking further into their own oblivion and wonder if she whispers to them too.
Written in response to The Daily Post’s prompt of Descend.