Psychosis

Light drains the dregs of colour from the world, like he drains the coffee dregs.

Sitting at the kitchen table in the present, so silent. Thinking back on the loud cheerful people. Quiet presses down on him, like hands out of the grey shadows.

Pressing and pressing, pushing and pushing, shoving him down and further and further—

The coffee is knocked across the table. He stood so quickly. Jerking back from the dark emotions. Clicks follow him through the house as he switches on all the lights. Trying to brighten up his soul.

Each breath ragged and uneven. The hands still pulling— never faulting. Never failing.

He stumbles into a wall, let's himself slide down. But that is as far as he will let himself fall. Eyes flick to the bare light bulb above the bare table.

"Stop." He speaks as if in an interview.

"Stop." Monotone and hollow.

The hands hesitate. Retract a little. Then burst forward. Hitting and tearing at his head. He screams— terrified and hurting and rattling. Blood sears red into his sight. The blinding sudden colour startling him. Startling the hands. They run back to the shadows like spiders. Pain pounds in his skull.

He lowers his bruised hands down to the cool floor.

"What have I..."

A woman with a friendly face kneels down infront of him.

"What have you done, darling?"

He blinks and the room is empty.

"I need a cup of coffee."