"It" Follows

As I walk through the hospital's door, I feel it crawling back again. Climbing from the soles of my feet to my legs, then my spine, before reaching my head and wrapping itself around my skull.

The same thought I've had now for months on loop, never tired, never bored, just less urgent. And every time it shows up, I give it my undivided attention, no matter how many times I've had the misfortune to face it inside my mind.

Every road I take, every person I see, every time I open my eyes in the morning. "It" finds a way to make itself heard, known, like a spoiled child pulling on my sleeve, crying, wailing, making a scene, demanding to get what he wants. But what is it that he is asking for?

I turn to face him and watch him endlessly tug on my clothes, yelling and shaking me back and forth. Meanwhile, I don't utter a word in response and instead, I just stare at the ground beneath me, then back at him, then around me, then at the ground again.

Truth of the matter is, I don't know. I simply don't.

I don't know what to say, what to do, what to answer with.

And each time "It" comes to me, it does like there's no tomorrow, and as if yesterday had never existed, making by far the most relentless creature I've ever had to face in my entire life.

Everyday I wait for him to come, the little boy. I preemptively pull my arm out, for him to grab onto. That's all I could offer as a fix, and I'm afraid it's starting to look like I won't be able to offer more anytime soon, maybe not ever.

Sometimes I love to think that I've accepted its unwelcome presence. But I don't think I have, really, and I frankly don't think anybody ever could. To say otherwise would be terribly dishonest.

Its omnipresence is terrifyingly similar to a life contract I never consented to sign in the first place, or maybe I'm getting too ahead of myself.

The most disturbing thing about it all is how it manages to find me everywhere, regardless of my whereabouts. It somehow finds a way to infiltrate every event, every mundane occurrence even, every corner of my existence, and I'm starting to resent how well and comfortably it's established itself inside my psyche. I almost blame myself for it.

Whereas, the only time I'm remotely safe from its chaos is when I'm asleep, temporarily disconnected from this world. At least in my sleep, I get to stop it from roaming freely and tarnishing everything I lay my hands on.

But isn't it quite ironic how the only time I can escape the horrors of Death is when I'm practically dead myself?

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