The cold fingers clasp around my wrists. The bones digging into my skin. The skeletal hands aren’t completely white, they have patches of black and grey.
It’s dark out. It’s dark in my room, except for the soft white light of the moon entering through my window.
I try paying no attention to the hands pulling at my wrists. I know if I will my mind away from them, they will soon disappear, leaving me to sleep in peace.
But that is easier said than done. The bones’ hold is too tight, their pull too strong. I clench my eyes shut and shake my head.
‘I won’t let them pull me down again. Not tonight.’
But when the hands don’t disappear, when sleep doesn’t come, I let my fears brew forth.
I don’t want those hands, those bones, to pull me under. They are good for nothing. Nothing except drowning me in the deep dark abyss of my insecurities.
I know that if I even touch its waters, I’ll drown in it. I know because I have gone through it several times. Each time I try to fight it off, each time I lose. Every single time I try to stay afloat, every time I drown. The already strong hold of the skeleton grows impossibly stronger the second I touch the water.
So I just let it be, paralyzed with fear, fighting a lost war as the hands drag me into the depths of my anxiety, my insecurities, my pessimism, my doubts. Drowns me in it at a painstakingly slow pace, as if enjoying my sufferings.
Nights are for sleeping.
But what do you do when nights are the ones that won’t let you sleep?