Autopilot

Fingers meander absently, mindlessly, naively down QWERTY Lane, telling tales of woes of others onto digital paper.

Conscious unconsciousness.

Sleepwalking, daydreaming, wandering off into dark alleys where thoughts lurk behind pillars shaped like past bodies and faces, grotesque and looming, stalking, pulsing in excited anticipation of pouncing, screaming, pounding, shrieking assault. They are happy. Their prey has arrived.

Poor unsuspecting, tender, never quite scabbed over …

Waking now. But not in this present.

Shadows and voices, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing sharp memories of every word from every time that ever hurt.

Bleeding directly into racing heart, beating harder and harder, sucking the breath away.

Awake now. But lightheaded, ill.

The sinking feeling.

The assault.

The daily

panic

attack.