in the faces beyond the door, he could hear his own breathing…the rise and fall of aspiration, a thickening.
silence stood at the door.
he listened. stopped. counted seconds. handle, twist, knob, pull. finding his own face beyond the door….surrounded by deaf voices, pushing forward, captured in the fabric of the cloud, between time and timelessness…
they pressed faces into the grey…never to reach him.
You scream but cannot reach my essence.
with his hand, he touched the frozen lips. the eye sockets. the very eyeball. all grey, all fiber, cloud, and fog.
he looked around himself. all was fleeting. he reached down and found an arm, a hand, and then nothing. it slipped in and out. in and out.
they moved, the lips. they did.
I am here.
he grabbed his other arm, held it…but it vanished, along with the first….
It is time.
a buzzing sound brought him to a precipice. the faces yawned, breaking grey….
and the light rose, the curtains danced to airstream from the vents, and Jack Cochran yanked the alarm cord yet another time and threw the clock against the wall, as it continued to buzz….
all rights reserved