Not the word

So you're sitting alone right now, looking for meaning.

When suddenly it strikes you that you're on your own. That you're isolated. That no one is there to help you, should something happen to you.

You know the feeling. 

The feeling of your limbs turning to stone out of sheer dread, the sensation dripping from them like blood from a wound. 

The cruel, icy shivers careering down your bones and through your heart.

The primal urge to run, in some direction, somewhere. 


Your neck hair standing to attention, to prepare you for the onslaught of whatever horror your mind has created for you in the abyss: just beyond the circle of your lamp.

You're safe now, in your small island of illumination.

But what happens when the light's off?

When the things you so fear, the things you can't bear to think of begin to creep from those shadowy corners.

When the darkest thoughts you have take corporeal shape, and shamble towards you with a slow, sickening gait.

The wait is agonising.

Drawn out.

Fear is not the word for what you're feeling now.

Scared doesn't come close.

You're having a borderline panic attack.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

The sound of your heart. The sound of their feet. Their claws. Their approach.


Faster.  Closer.  Nearer.


Fear is not the word for what you're feeling right now.

The End

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