Consumed in Fear

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


I feel like I'm trapped inside a box. It might be a coffin. The air is oppressively stuffy and it's impossible to move so I can't tell where the walls are. I appear to be laying on fabric warmed by my own body.

It occurs to me that I should be breathing. When was the last time I took a breath? I can't remember. I try to force it and nothing happens. My chest doesn't move at all. I can think but I can't breathe. If I'm not breathing then I am going to die. I don't want to die. The thought echoes in my head growing more and more intense until panic grabs my brain with clawed fingers and shakes. The worse it gets, the more sure I am that I'm approaching some dark and invisible edge. If I fall off that edge I know that I will die and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I'm trying to force my body to struggle every way that I know how and it doesn't respond at all. I know that if I can move a single toe, I'll break free and everything will be fine. Nothing moves!

And that vast gulf rises before me ever larger.


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