Writing

When his conscience reawakened he was pressed against the wall at the end of a small hallway, shivering in the dark. His body ached with tiredness and mostly the need to break down.  Inside a fuzzed brain stimulants were sending fear, - but most predominantly adrenaline, coursing through his body. He was shaking, from his toes, in plain, black socks, up his thin legs in jeans that seemed too big on him, up to his waist, where a thin, faded belt was thrown over his pronounced hipbones. The shivers went on up his black turtleneck and through his tense muscles, through his sleepless brain.  His already pale face turned even more transparent and had morphed from a grimace to a speechless gape. Exhausted of resisting, he shut his dark eyes, diving into the adjacent room on his left and immediately curling into a ball and crying. His body convulsed not with sobs but with a sense of insensitivity, pain, and fear. He wanted to stop time. Go back.  

Someone tapped on his shoulder. “Get up. Matt, get up. What’s wrong?” he read traces of worry and concern in the voice – her voice, and a wave of warmth flooded through him momentarily as her familiarity presented itself to him. Or was it his brain remembering her? Did he not just- “Matt, come on. It’s okay. What’s wrong?”  She started crying and pulled him up against her shoulder. He didn’t dare open his eyes in case it wasn’t’ real. Inside he was dying to know that it was her and that they were safe.

 He picked up his broken spirit. The incompetency of his body to work to the efficiency of his mind took an invigorating toll on himself. It felt like he couldn’t handle his mind himself, and the events of the past dragged him down into despair.