SUFFOCATING

It is so dark in here.
All the time.
I sit huddled in this corner looking up at the small hole.
Through that, for some time, the light comes.
The light can’t reach me. It stops just above where my fingers reach.
I can’t touch it.

I am sorry, Mom!

I lie here all day, whispering to myself.
There is no one else to talk to.
I haven’t talked to anyone for so long.
I can’t talk to my plant. It withers if I cry to it.
I can’t talk to the walls. They turn angry red or purple if I scream.
Then I have to touch them all over to make the colour go away.
I can’t talk to the bed. It heats up and then I can’t sit or lie on it.
So I lie here. Talking to me. Whispering.

I am sad, Mom.
And lonely.

There are big cobwebs on the ceiling.
I see them when the hole lights up.
I can’t see what is inside of them.
But when it gets dark, the cobwebs come down and touch me.
Sometimes on the lips. Sometimes on the face or hands.
It frightens me. I squeeze tighter into my corner.
But I can’t make them go away.

Take me out, Mom!
I am scared!

My hands are all bony.
My skin has dried. It makes a scrapey sound when I touch things.
I can’t stand up now. Everything sways if I do that.
It is getting harder to move about.
I get breathless.
I can’t breathe. The air is so thick, it chokes my throat.
I can’t gulp it in.

Take me out, mom!
I am suffocating!

Take me out, Mom!
Please?