Let Me Out

by Chua Han Au

I am eating a piece of flattened bread after coming out of the screaming showers. I am once again feeling horribly hollow but with no distinct reason. It is as if sensitivity has gone to a whole new level where now, there is absolutely no reason needed to catalyse this void sentiment. The skin on the joint of my third finger on my left hand is unknowingly scathed, with its skin gently torn, revealing its crimson disfigurement. I don’t think I can sleep again tonight; only to toss and turn repeatedly, floundering like a baby on flaming charcoal.

It will not be the horrors of “The Boy” that prevent me from sleeping. Rather, it will be this intangible cavity that sucks all vitality out, expelling them in the air – carried away sadistically by the quick wind. I can indistinctly see silhouettes passing swiftly out of the windows and downstairs. Should I be fearful? Why has my heart skipped a beat? if they are present in my house, only to fetter me to my bed and terrorise me with their utterly grotesque features and repulsive stench, I hope that my conscience is still working; for I promise, I will wake up after the paralysis, only to transcribe lucidly about my harrowing experience with the possibly bodiless things.

Who am I kidding?

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