Insecurity And Insomnia

I lay on my bed, staring out the window. It’s not the most interesting sight. Just some fog, a few trees in the distance. I turn onto my side, only to see the glowing red of the numbers on an alarm clock. The time reflects in my bloodshot eyes. 5:00 in the morning. I haven’t even closed my eyes. My skin is oddly pale, and my delusions are overcoming me. I lift my hand in front of my face, and rub my head. The permanent migraine in my mind isn’t making anything better. But my delusions aren’t fake: they’re there. All of them, staring at me in disappointment. I feel something touch my face, and it shifts uncomfortably on my arm. I’m hooked up to some equipment, and I’m not sure of it’s purpose. The itchy fabric of a hospital gown scratches against my skin. The sheets smell of cheap detergent. There’s a tv in front of me, mounted on the wall. The screen is black, and it’s obviously been turned off for a while. But it isn’t blank: no, there’s a reflection. I’m breathing unsteadily, and every breath cuts deeper into my stomach. The door is open, and has been for a few seconds. This can’t be one of my hallucinations: the door wouldn’t be open. I move a bit, and realize that I’ve got stitches down my side, a few different places on my face, and quite a few other places as well. I don’t remember anything even happening: but I know something has. There’s a table of surgical tools beside me: a knife is the only one I can identify. It didn’t help my fear that they were all covered in blood splatters either. My arm is twitching, and there’s an urge inside it. It flashes to the table and grabs the knife, eager to use it. I see again the darkened silhouette of a person. It walks toward me, and my arm extends. I looked up at where the knife had landed: the heart of the silhouette. But it’s not a silhouette any more: It’s a full color person: me.

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