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What a pity.
17
MIA
Hope is the worst emotion to experience when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel.
You wait.
You pray.
You even try to delude yourself that it’s not happening to you. That it justcan’tbe you.
But that’s the problem with hope.
The false positive. The feeling that the horrible situation can end any moment, when that’s far from the truth.
It’s the falsification of reality.
The yearning for a different dream.
A feeling of being on the cloud that can’t be reached in real time.
Once again, I’m back in the pitch-darkness. Tendrils of black slither across my hands and feet, swallowing me deeper into the clutches of nothingness.
My lungs choke on the dying hope of ever seeing light again.
“Mom…Dad…” My haunted whisper echoes in the dark silence like an eerie lullaby.
My limbs tremble and my heart shrivels. Tears sting my eyes again and I sniffle as quietly as possible.
If I trigger the monster’s wrath, he’ll throw me against the wall and laugh at my loud crying.
He laughs when I say Mom and Dad will come to get me.
He laughs the hardest when he unleashes the weight of his wrath on me. When he kicks and throws me against the wall as if I’m the punching bag in our home gym.
Again and again.
And again.
Until I wish it would end already.
It doesn’t, though.
The monster is here again, his fangs visible through his sardonic smile. His eyes are as dead as the boogeyman from Dad’s bedtime stories.
I crouch further, eyes squeezed shut, and I cover my ears with my sweaty palms.
Don’t touch me.
Please.
Daddy! Mommy! Help!
“You’ll never escape me, you little rascal.”
No!
