Anxiety

True terror taps on my bedroom window. I know that I have no choice but for a while I remain under the covers, the air becoming more and more stale as my breathes become deeper. And quicker. The tapping is music and rhythmic and present and all in time with the frantic beating of my own heart. Somehow, it is all I hear. The shadow cast on the soft sheets that my mother chose leaks ink and stains the place where I pretend to sleep. I feel my blood collect at my feet, as if a magnet were willing it down through my body and arms, and from my face the color dwindled. The tapping becomes more forceful, but the sound exists only in my ears and nose and the space around them. I keep my eyes closed and choke on invisible sand as the darkness slides across the floor, up the bed and onto my chest. I cower under the sheets, but the weight is unmistakable. Unimaginable.