Writer That Writes

Welcome to My Blog!

July 10th, 2023

I am a stressed-out woman in her mid-twenties who writes anything and everything that comes to my mind. I will be posting my own poems, short stories, and maybe a couple of traditional journal entries as well. Maybe some art too if I’m feeling crazy. I hope you enjoy what you read! I will be posting regularly (and by regularly I mean whenever I write something new, so basically I have no idea when I’ll be posting), and try to write a variety of genres. If you really like what you see, you can feel free to subscribe so that you can get notified every time I post something new.
The Woman in The Mirror

July 10th, 2023

A jarring screech roared throughout the room.

The woman in red got up suddenly from her comfortable bed, shaking in a cold sweat. She looked around in a hurried fashion, her eyes searching around the room rapidly in search of anything unfamiliar.

The room was compact with only a tightly packed desk chair, a surprisingly congenial bed, a dim lamp sat next to it, and a lengthy, dusty mirror attached to the wall across from the bed.

The walls of the room were dark brown, covered in torn wallpaper and scratches. There was little ventilation, and hidden in the room was only one deafening sound.

Silence.

Must’ve been from outside, she thought reassuringly.

The woman, comforted, sat back down, ready to go back to sleep, when another jarring screech began.

She started to look around again, prepared to walk around the room.

Getting down from her bed, she trod carefully around the room, not making any sudden movements. The only sounds she could hear were her hushed breathing and her gradually increasing heart rate, with not a peep coming from any other part of the room.

I’m overthinking this- it’s nothing.

Her fatigue now gone, she sat down on her bed, irritated, as she stared into her reflection in the mirror.

Voluminous curls wrapped around her head all the way to her lower back, as her icy fingertips felt around her oval-shaped face for anything recognizable. Her fierce eyes glanced herself up and down- her delicate skin was covered in a white and red dress, going down to her mid-thighs. Her red-painted feet scraped the dark floorboards. She looked back up to catch her savage stare.

CREAK

She ignored the sound as she continued to stare at herself. Despite it all, she was beautiful. She had nothing to fear.

The sound got louder.

She continued to ignore it. She had never realized how captivating she looked in red.

And louder.

Wait, what was she doing? She was running- and rightfully so. When they caught her, they would do horrible things to her.

And louder.

She was a monster- but she had to run. She didn’t know why they called her so, but she knew she had to protect herself.

And louder.

She had nobody. She must leave- be on red alert at all times. She didn’t have time to ogle herself, she needed to go soon, she needed to hide again, she needed to-

Louder.

She searched the room anxiously with her eyes, trembling.

Louder.

Please, don’t do this. I’m a good person, I don’t do bad things, this isn’t me.

LOUDER.

She sat down on the floor, curled up in a ball, ready for impact.

LOUDER.

Please- I’m begging you, whoever-whatever you are. I’m good, I didn’t do this!

LOUDER.

A booming knock came from the room door. They had come for her.

LOUDER.

“Open up, Monster- you will pay for what you’ve done!”

LOUDER.

I’ll do anything- please. I’m a good person, I just want to be safe, I’ll do whatever you ask!

The screeching stopped.

The knocking continued; however, as she slowly looked up, teary-eyed, she saw her reflection grinning at her, glinty-eyed.

Whatever I ask, eh? Your wish is my command.

As the woman’s facial expression began to resemble the reflection, the knocking stopped as the person on the other side began to realize what was happening.

The woman looked down at her red-stained dress and feet from the person on the other side’s family, smiling ear to ear before getting up to open the door eagerly.

Run.
Multiple Forms

December 23rd, 2025

When you love someone unconditionally

You see them in multiple forms

I see my grandfather

An old man at a temple

Or at the store

Quiet with kind eyes

Filled with curiosity and affection

I’m always somehow reaching out

Opening the door for him

A quiet “how are you”

In hopes that it’ll make his day

Picking something up for him

Praying he’ll look me in the eye

And provide me with the blessing

Of a “thank you”

I see my brother occasionally

An innocent little boy

Saying things only a child could reasonably say

With the most wonderful light in his eyes

That cannot help but make me smile

I used to see him before he was here too

A cousin or family friend’s child

Who I was strangely drawn to

I would cry when I had to leave them

And hope they experience

The most beautiful of lives

I have a theory

The things you want the most

Unconditionally

That need you have

Deep in your soul

Something you cannot fully understand

Is because in the future you have it

And that need is simply you missing

What is not there yet

When I was a little girl

I used to pray for a little brother

Chaotic waterfalls bursting out of my eyes

Up all night

Staring up at the ceiling

Dreaming about him

The light of my life

I was fifteen when he was born

And I realized

I missed him

Before he even took his first breath

I see you sometimes

In drawings and actors

In songs and nature

In the first fall chill

That contrastingly gives me a warm smile

The ladybugs that flutter on an April afternoon

I was looking through my childhood drawings

Recently

And saw a man I drew

With glasses and angelic eyes

Staring with earnestness

To the side of the paper

Maybe in some curious way

I missed you before you were in my life

Maybe that is why people from my faith

Believes God appears in many forms

It’s all one

But sometimes

When you truly love something unconditionally

You can see them everywhere you go
i dread the day

November 16th, 2025

my address is a guesthouse

my roots sprout from the soil of a stranger’s garden

i drive once a week downtown

waking up at the crack of dawn

and as I watch the sun rise

through my window

i can see the California coast

yes!

it is there

where I shall return!

where I feel utter nostalgia

and will grow my family

i observe the downtown buildings

and can see the Los Angeles skyline

i open my window

and nearly feel the loving graze

of the San Diego breeze

but i drove again today

and was too tired to notice the changing sky

or the gentle wind flowing into my hair

when I realized

what I was doing

a fear grew

i dread the day

i grow weary of the California coast

of the soft sand between my toes

and the salty air flowing

into my nostrils

i dread the day

i live too long in my head

that i do not remember

how much time and effort it took

to break open that wall

that stood there for so long

i dread the day

as disease rots my brain

i dream of going back to where i’m from

with rose colored glasses

view fruit where there was poison

i dread the day

i wish to show my children

the house I hated growing up in

and ask them to play

in the same cul-de-sac

i vowed to never return to

so now I think it is best

that as I look out my window

and view the downtown sunrise

i continue to admire its beauty

and never forget

how it’s the same sun rising over

my home of California
rattlesnakes

November 8th, 2025

i used to hear snake sounds

outside my childhood house

shaking slowly, humming

it was the hissing

or maybe the soft, gentle, instrument-like rattle

that woke me up every morning

as i smelled the scent of something

i can no longer recall

there is a sense of joy

in not being able to fully remember the past

after all, it was painful

yet

there is also the bitter irony

why are you happy

with little memory of the supposed

greatest moments of your life?

i recently moved back into my house

and it’s funny

i can hear them again

it’s the same rattling

that nobody else seems to notice

the rattling must signal change

a significant one that uproots all

with no mercy

it can’t mean anything else

but

there is a part of me that is terrified

of another potential meaning

that this represents everything

going back to the way it was

stagnant

lost in a crowd of voices

with the only one able to lead me out

being myself

a 6-year-old

looks out the window

searching for the source of the rattles

almost loud enough to drown out

the sounds of yelling behind her

she prays to the snake

that her meaning is correct
A Tuesday in September

October 16th, 2025

Veronica could not explain why this was not an ordinary Tuesday for her.
It certainly had all of the qualities of a normal day.
She woke up, made her morning matcha, took a shower, made some breakfast, and headed to class.
Something stung.
She ignored the feeling and moved onward.

During class, she liked to draw little doodles in her notebook.
It wasn’t as if Veronica wasn’t listening— she was. Yet, her brain felt as though she did most of her learning outside of her class. She liked to silently draw the facial features of random people sitting in her class: hair, noses, eyes, lips-
A twinge.
She ignored the feeling and moved onward.

As she walked back to her apartment for lunch, the wind blew softly through her hair. She always got cold easily— even in the 80-degree sun, she felt goosebumps across her arms due to the October chill. She preferred walking at night to avoid the discomfort of the heat against her face. The feeling of walking down the road, street lights gently illuminating the path ahead of her, with the calm voice of the gentle breeze blowing just perfectly— not too hot, not too cold. She couldn’t remember the last time she did that.
Was she going to see him again today?
Veronica shivered.
She ignored the feeling and moved onward.

Veronica did not necessarily call herself someone who dwelled on things frequently. She moved on, life continuted— “go with the flow”.
She felt as though everything happened for a reason. She used to be a bit of a control freak growing up. When she was little, she used to plan out her birthdays so intricately that when one little thing didn’t go exactly the way that she wanted it to, she would start crying. Now, after so long, she finally could say that she was okay when things didn’t go the way that she planned.
It started a month ago.
She walked towards her class.
Room 3.420.
It was a normal day.
Her heart beat a bit faster.
They hadn’t seen each other in almost a year.
Her eyes closed shut.
She passed right by the man sitting outside her class.
She ignored the feeling and moved onward.

Veronica walked in.
So why was she seeing him every single week now?
The chairs in this classroom were peculiar.
They always made a squeaking noise when she moved them to sit down.
As she sat in class, she stared directly at the whiteboard, yet could not comprehend a single word being spoken.
Her right index and middle fingers played with her pen slowly, balancing it between the crooks.
She liked to take her pen and draw along the lines of her palms, gently and carefully.
The feeling of the ink pressed against her hands felt like it was some kind of tattoo or mark, meant to be there. She was far too scared of pain to actually get one, but this was close enough.
She tried not to think about how her heart felt like it was about to fall out of her chest.
She ignored the feeling and moved onward.

Veronica’s laptop was dead, and none of the outlets nearby worked.
Realizing the dilemma she was in, she walked outside her classroom to an empty chair.
She plugged her laptop in and stared at it blankly before beginning to do work, but she couldn’t exactly comprehend what she was doing.
Footsteps approaching.
Her eyes had laser-sharp focus towards her screen, yet through the corner of her eye she looked up.
He saw her and walked the other direction.
She could imagine what he was thinking.
Why was she outside of his class?
He hadn’t seen her in almost a year.
Why was he seeing her every single week now?
Veronica got up from the chair and walked away.
She ignored the feeling and moved onward.

Veronica walked towards her apartment.
It was closer to the evening, so the sky was now a golden hue with blisters of red swirling around like ice cream.
She remembered that something similar had happened to one of her friends three years ago— but that was more likely to happen.
This was strange. This was bewildering.
This was going from wondering if she would ever see him again to seeing him multiple times a week.
Veronica curled her fingers up into a fist, as she used her other hand to tenderly caress it, softly grazing around her knuckles, lightly motioning her fingers across the fading pen lines she had drawn earlier.
Some part of her wished that he had spoken to her.
She couldn’t blame him; it took courage. Every time she saw him, she just walked away. Maybe she was a hypocrite.
There was always next week, anyway.
Today was a normal day.
Veronica put on her earphones and softly gazed ahead at the path in front of her as she walked to her friend’s apartment. Thinking for a second, she placed a hand on her left earphone and gently took it out to listen to the sound of people chattering and hear the breeze better.
She ignored the feeling and moved onward.
Graduation

May 23rd, 2025

When I was sixteen I dreamt of love

My dreams contained thoughts of dates,

romance, kissing, holding of hands

Crying, screaming, love notes, anger

Pain, rage, indents on my palms

From squeezing my fists so unbelievably tight

Whilst keeping my mouth closed shut

I dreamt of emotions that I was feeling

Of emotions that I wished to have

Of emotions that I would never pray

My worst enemy could understand

And emotions that I said I didn’t want

But secretly craved to experience

Six pillows of support felt so unbelievably suffocating

Stuffed so close together with barely any room to breathe

That I hadn’t even considered it could feel even more isolating

When it became five

I’ve always been bad at verbal speech

It was as though I would talk so much

Yet not say a single thing at all

So I wrote

Up and down my little pen traced my small black notebook

Blisters formed on my finger as I wrote again and again

What I said and what I didn’t,

What I wished I would say and what I hoped I would not

Inside my book held screams and tears and pain

Hopes and wishes and dreams

Pieces I would never show anyone

At the age of eighteen I felt alone again

My lonesome journal was no longer enough

So in typical cheesy form, I took a chance and did something new

I got up out of bed and headed out the door

and sought out a ragtag group of writers

to spill out our sorrows on parchment

Without the devastating fear of judgement and further misery

It’s funny

At 21 I have felt all of the things that I wrote about at 16

The things that I wanted to feel, the things that I didn’t

The things that I wished for, and the things that I hated

I found love and I found heartbreak

I found friends and I found foes

I’ve cried and screamed

Teardrops have fallen onto my journal

And yelps of pain I could never share

Have shaken me to my very core

But what I didn’t expect

Was I would not face this alone

My poems of despair had an audience

My short stories “not about me”

Were all heard and internalized by others

When I plunged into the water

I did not realize that others were waiting

for me to dip my toe in first

The love that I idolized and craved so deeply

Was not something I had to search for

My loneliness was no longer there

For even though I still had pain sometimes

I knew someone was listening

So,

As I share my bedtime story

And lay the blanket down

Getting things ready for a bright new day tomorrow

Maybe every once in a while

A sweet dream of yesterday will pass by

Or I’ll get a light tap on the shoulder

To ask for a glass of milk

But otherwise

We will all wake up refreshed and excited

As the sun rises along a burnt orange horizon
Quick Write

January 30th, 2025

Dear,

what an interesting way to normalize

addressing a letter to someone.

according to the dictionary it means

“regarded with deep affection” or

“cherished by someone”.

how lovely our world must be

to deem every single individual

worth writing a letter to as being

cherished and loved by the writer.

i do not like writing when I am not

particularly emotional,

i have noticed.

it feels as though inspiration is

entirely gone and I am clueless

what to even express with my words.

there is no passion, no voice.

yet,

i suppose,

when I wrote to him I felt as though

i was writing entire novels.

do you remember the last time i wrote to him?

i wrote on 24 pages,

utterly exhausted,

within the span of a few short hours.

soaked in ink,

my hand ached,

blisters formed,

my eyes grew fatigued,

and I could not imagine

loving anyone else

for the rest of my life.

i like to write letters to my friends,

letting them know how much i care about them

and how deeply grateful i am

for them to be in my life

i think one of the biggest regrets one can have

is not showcasing how deeply you appreciate someone

before it is too late

i remember afternoons with my grandfather

watching Jim Carrey movies with him

laughing while he ate pizza with a fork

not telling him how much he meant to me

sixteen years old,

embarrassed by the thought of non-romantic love

only wanting boys, late night drives, booze,

never telling him I loved him

maybe when they were establishing the idea of letters

typical letter introductions and greetings

some 21 year old writer thought it would be a nice way

of introducing love into everyday messages

such as letters

when I first started journaling in high school

i hated the concept of writing to myself

i would write, addressed to a lover

someone who would read my letters earnestly

who would write them back and smile

they would take me out on dates and kiss my hand

open the door for me and dance with me in the rain

have I mentioned I hate dancing

and would never dare let my joy be tarnished by anything else

i was so utterly obsessed with the concept of having someone

because I hated the thought of being alone

not even realizing that I was someone

i was dear-

i am Dear.

Dear Deepali,

what an interesting way to normalize

addressing a letter to someone.
the smile

January 30th, 2025

i am perfect.

better phrased, i am THE perfect.

i smile when people walk by me

i make casual conversation

i listen to “normal” music

there is nothing strange about me

nothing WRONG with me.

other people are not perfect

and they are looked down upon

for that very notion

they listen to weird music

they don’t give people “the smile”

maybe they will open their lips

and show their teeth

but they don’t give the one

that they’re supposed to give

they don’t wear the clothes

that they’re supposed to wear

but i am not like that

the other day i was cursed

i visited my hometown

and saw my friend

i did not know that we would be going out

and i was unprepared

she asked me why it mattered

but i couldn’t explain

i wasn’t wearing perfect clothes

i did not bring my 5 varieties of perfumes

or shower with my 2 different kinds of soaps

i did not do my complicated skin care routine

so i smiled extra hard

i was pristinely polite

i tried to be as perfect as possible

but alas they saw right through me

they saw the savage woman

who was clearly hiding something

they saw the filthy little girl

who could kill them at any second

who ate land spices

and held mass weaponry

to destroy them all

they saw the foreign lady

who lived in a stolen mansion

who could hack into their bank accounts

and would eat their kids for breakfast

my skin had peeled back

a wolf in sheep’s clothing

perfect dee was gone

deepali had emerged

i walked to the restroom

heart racing as fast as possible

a perfect man walked by me

i tried to smile in my gray fur

but he stared right through my canines

it needed to have the matching skin

and i froze feeling the same fear that they felt

would his fear truly burn so unbearably

that he would eradicate my kind?

i come back to school

i wake up early to shower

with my 6-step hygiene routine

have i mentioned my perfumes?

i walk by a woman

i am wearing my pristine white clothing

i smile the perfect smile

she smiles back

and for a second i am perfect

except for one thing
There is nothing we can do.

April 10th, 2024

Hello everyone. This is Brian and thank you for tuning in on today’s feature of “Lost Tapes”. Today, we will be playing the lost podcast episode of Sara Murphy’s series, “Nightly Terrors”. An underground conspiracy theorist podcast at the time, all files have been deleted from existence on the same day of Sara’s tragic demise. The theory so far is that every person who speaks about this topic suffers a tragic and mysterious demise very soon after. As my loyal followers know, as much as I am interested in these conversations, I am a proud skeptic here to put it to the test! How exactly all episodes have been destroyed, has been a complete and utter mystery; however, through some miracle, one of the members of our team, Jackson, recently found this tape through a thorough search in Indonesia. We will now be playing the episode, which may be the only existing tape of the only existing episode of the podcast. May Sara Murphy rest in peace.

——————————————————————————————–

Throughout the years of humanity’s existence, there has always been the quintessential fear of the dark. There has always been something so eerie and uncomfortable about being unable to sleep due to the unrelenting suspicion that someone or something is watching you through the abyss of your room, the unlit street, the cowering alleyway.

Researchers commonly theorize how this irrational fear could be stemmed from our ancestor’s struggle with seeing enemies approach at night, or being attacked during sleep. This makes perfect sense of course- warring nations understanding that the perfect time to attack would be at night, nocturnal creatures being wide awake during your weakest, or simply not being alert enough to hear the quiet steps of the mountain lion treading oh-so quietly towards you.

That does not explain why our very first ancestors were scared. The ones who did not have stories being told by their grandparents because they WERE the grandparents. The ones who were still figuring out what language was, who only knew to hunt, sleep, and eat, who did not even comprehend fear.

Why were they scared? I’m Sara Murphy, here to talk about it.

As a popular fan of horror and conspiracy forums, as you all know, this specific theory caught my eye when I saw it in a journal that a family friend of mine wrote recently. The thing that captivated me the most, however? That family friend passed away 2 days after I read it. I believe that it is now my duty, and also my pleasure, to be able to share this with you all. May they rest in peace.

As I mentioned before, there has always been a deep-rooted fear of darkness that has existed for years- but where does that originate from?

Well, let’s dive deeper into a fear of darkness. If you really think about it, a fear of darkness isn’t necessarily a fear of darkness— it is a fear of being alone in darkness. When people are alone on a gloomy night with a friend, they aren’t necessarily afraid, are they? No, because they know that they have someone else with them. So, then this fear is about being alone in darkness- not being in the dark. But then, let’s dive even deeper. Let’s say that you’re a little kid who sneaked into the living room while your parents were watching a horror movie and saw this really scary monster— gross, ugly, big, sharp teeth, claws- all the stuff. Then, you head to bed, and your mom turns off the light, but you have this aching fear that someone is in your closet or under your bed. You’re scared to close your eyes in case this big old monster comes in and eats you. Now, that begs the question: is the fear of being alone in darkness, or not being alone in the dark?

Now, let’s get into this theory. Everyone talks about the first humans- Adam and Eve, whatever you call them. There was a period of civilization that did not know about all the dangerous plants and animals going after them, disease, war- they did not know about these things. You would assume that they would sleep peacefully every night, not a worry in the world, right? A recent study from Yale done a couple of years ago by Dr. Stanley Richards in 1978 theorizes how there’s one innate fear that all children have from birth- being alone. They’re fine seeing weird stuff, heights— they have no idea how the world works. Yet, the minute they figure out they’re alone without their mom or anyone there? God, they are crying so hard. This theory states that the very first humans were the exact same way- but why?

I am gonna quote this straight from the theory now- “There is a being so much older than any creature on Earth, older than we can comprehend, as old as God, that all beings have an innate fear of. It is constantly watching every waking second of the day and it will do absolutely nothing but watch, and its only desire is to destroy. There is absolutely no evidence or proof of its existence because it will destroy any and all of it- it does not want a soul to know about it. Yet, somehow, somewhere in the very being of humanity, something is warning us that it is there and it is waiting to destruct absolutely everything until there is nothing left. There is nothing we can do”.

“There is nothing we can do.”

“There is nothing we can do.”

“There is nothing we can do.”

——————————————————————————————–

Wow, talk about spooky! So, Brian here again! As you guys may have noticed, that last line that kept repeating-

“There is nothing we can do.”

“There is nothing we can do.”

“There is nothing we can do.”

Um- okay! Ha, uh, I don’t know what that was! I’m guessing Jackson, my sound guy was playing a little joke. Jackson, stop goofing around!

“There is nothing we can do.”

“There is nothing we can do.”

“There is nothing we can do.”

Okay, Jackson, I’m serious! We gotta get back to my point. So, as I said, that line, apparently, was not edited by Sara. Some kind of weird glitch happened during the episode, causing that to repeat. It went on like that again for another 20 minutes until the last line just said “there is nothing” and it was cut off. Weird! Now, as a skeptic, I honestly think that it’s probably a coincidence, or someone like Jackson over here just wanted to play a prank on Sara— or maybe she was just lying, may she rest in peace. Yet, that was not the only strange thing that happened. After these messages, I’m going to talk about some of the things that supposedly happened before Sara passed away.

Uh, Jackson, why is it still recording? Can you hear me, is my mic off or something?

Jackson?

God, Jackson, I swear to God are you on your phone again? I am coming up there right now and I swear to God if you are on your pho-

Oh my God.

Oh my God, oh my God, Jackson, are you okay, can you hear me? Jackson wake up, get up, I’m here-

Who are you?

What are you doing here, this is a closed set, how did you-

What are you.

Please, I have a family. I don’t want to die, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I won’t tell anyone, I-

“There is nothing we can do.”

“There is nothing we can do.”

“There is nothing we can do.”

“There is nothing we can do.”
Fingerprint

March 25th, 2024

I have been told that I do not attempt to process emotions

Unless they are standing directly in front of me

I process sadness, anger, frustration, loneliness

But what about guilt?

I went through a whole spiritual awakening recently

I was sitting on a bus

And suddenly felt this extreme feeling of gratitude and joy

Like I had never felt before

I like to think that I’ve changed

But I can’t stop thinking of this thing I did a month ago

I tell myself that I no longer care

I go with the flow, let things be, it is out of my hands

I did something hypocritical

I gave definitive proof that I do still care

Guilt forms small bubbles in the back of my head

Yet needles are just too expensive

There is no confession to give

I did not do something terrible, it is not something laced with anger

But I still denied the quota, I still stuck my hand in the jar

I still looked for definitive proof that I would get what I wanted

I am okay with and I am okay without

I say that and for the first time I mean it

But how do I deal with the feeling of knowing that

There was a period where that wasn’t true?

I am afraid that I care

I don’t stalk, I don’t follow, I don’t discuss, I don’t write poems

But after all this time

This is the fingerprint left at the crime scene

I have always been a control freak

I fear the unknown and get angry when I spill my drink

How do I get rid of the knowing that something is about to happen

And, despite all, continue to give my glass of hope to the sky?
Waiting.

March 10th, 2024

Kay stared blankly into the distance.

Waiting.

Waiting.

He could not remember the last time he had gotten up or done anything.

No longer could he feel his hunger, thirst, anger, sadness, fear.

He was not sure if he could feel anything anymore.

He had cried so much for so long that his eyes seemed as though they couldn’t even render emotion.

His lips were so cracked and smudged he wasn’t sure he could even show any if he tried.

The only thing he could feel was tired.

Waiting.

Waiting.

He remembered the last time he looked at his reflection- however long ago that was- he could not recognize himself. For a second he saw a shadow of a human, someone who looked undeniably dead- as if a ghost had inhabited the body of a corpse and was just moving it around like a puppet.

He certainly felt like a puppet.

It reminded him of his mother when she died of the illness. He could see her ribs so clearly, her cheekbones so visible and elongated that he felt physically sick every time he saw her. The feeling of her thin skin holding his hand, her jagged breathing, so loud and so soft at the same time, the way her lips were quivering so much despite her begging him not to cry- it was like his own personalized version of torture. He could barely even look at her for more than a second because doing so felt like someone was stabbing him in the heart.

As she breathed her last, forcing herself to look into his eyes, she placed her hand softly on his cheek, whispering “I’ll see you again”.

This was worse.

Waiting.

Waiting.

He could hear the loud echoing of his breathing and heartbeat surrounding him.

Engulfing him.

If he focused on the echo for too long, he could almost faintly hear the last cries of his loved ones as they breathed their last.

Every single breath of his, every single heartbeat, every blink, every fidget, was just the cruel reminder of fate that he still had the misery of being alive- that he was cursed with the misery of living, if one could even call it that. He would try his hardest to remain as physically still as possible. He did not need another reminder- maybe that way he would see his family again faster.

He hoped to god there was an afterlife so that he could see them again.

Waiting.

Waiting.

As he sat quietly, he tried to ignore the sounds of groaning and screaming in the air. He knew it was hunting him.

Well- something like that at least.

He had already tried chasing them- sacrificing himself, crying out to God, begging them to take him already- yet, somehow they refused. They laughed in his face.

They wanted him to suffer more.

They wanted him to bring himself to the verge of death, to feel nothing anymore, to no longer even be human. Then, only then, would they take him.

So, that’s what he did.

Waiting.

Waiting.