Eyes Open

Eyes open.

The consciousness she's gathering in the pitch black seemingly contradicts itself.

The eyes struggling to focus on anything at all center over every memory she's trying to attain.

The darkness at this moment isn't the emptiness surrounding, it's her inability to maintain cognizance.

She closes her eyes again.

Talk about irony.

The world is oblique, her full panicked breaths echoing infinite shadow.

She feels like one complete bruise;or break, or scrape, or gash, or laceration, her frenzied mind numbing over the possibilities of what lies in the darkness in addition to herself as well. Her legs remain unresponsive through a blanket of crushing pain.

One constant thought answers in place of her memory:

RUN!

She almost screams, startled by her own thoughts; a reflexive notion instantly replaced with a more pressing instinct:

Fear.

Fear of some fate she won't remember--something locked away.

Suddenly she's been still too long.

Dread fuels her every battered muscle.

Frantically twisting to free herself from this aphotic prison, she pulls.

Her right hand won't spread.
Her palm can't feel the ground.

She presses harder, skinning elbows and wrists into glass and dirt, straining with all her strength until:

BAM!

A deafening pop as a split-second flash cuts through the darkened silence.

She forgot about the pistol.

Memories flood her head and this time she does scream.

The emptiness at this moment isn't the darkness surrounding, it's her unwillingness to survive this nightmare.

She holds the pistol to her temple.

Futility is now a hardwired emotion.

Without hesitation she squeezes the trigger, eyes open.



Click. Blink. Click.

The emptiness of this moment isn't the darkness, fear or the loss of any will, it's the chamber of the useless pistol now hurtling through the void.

She closes her eyes again.