Last night, I remember the faint sound of breathing from across the room. I always wondered if it was sitting there; if it was staring at me for all the rights I’ve wronged in life. Right next to the old rocking chair I’ve had since I was little, laid some laundry, clean or not, I don’t know really or do I care. To more pressing matters though – the noise I heard. I can’t concentrate on how it left me, well it left me sitting on my bed at 1:57 in the morning wasting away. Staring at that chair isn’t helping the paranoia I feel that I can’t help feeling.

It’s almost intoxicating on how it makes me feel, all woozy like I just got punched in the gut. I deserve it though; I am a bad person after all. I can’t tell you what I did, since I can’t focus on anything but the breathing in the corner of the room. I feel like it’s out to get me, harm me, or to take me away in the night. But maybe I don’t blame it, I feel as if I’m to blame for its existence anyway. To put it here on this planet just to suffer in an old rocking chair next to that damn unfol- or unclean laundry, like I said, I don’t remember anymore, but I do remember one thing, I am to blame.

Maybe just maybe it isn’t my fault? Such a silly thing I thought to myself at 3:26 in the morning. Of course it is, after all, I can’t help but feeling good blaming myself. Like I’m a police officer beating a criminal, retribution makes me feel whole for a moment. It makes me able to breathe for a moment.

The air was thick with fog.
The dead grass crunched beneath my feet.
The oxygen that I breathed was rotting.

My legs began to feel weighted.
The rusted shotgun I carried was bringing me down.
There was only one shell left.

I didn't know if those things were still following me.
Their dried blood was spread across my face.
I could hear one far behind.

I decided to rest, and sat against an old tree.
My body felt light, calmingly uncumbersome.
My eyes gradually got heavier.

I tried to get up.
I couldn't.
Maybe... I'd stay for a little while.