Page 1 of Rushed

The air is so thin, it’s suffocating. The area around me is pitch black, and I can feel the grit on my eyelashes. I try blinking to clear it, but it’s no use.

“Is anyone there?” My voice is hoarse. I sound like I’ve been choking down a pack of cigarettes on a weeklong bender of booze and drugs.

“Hello?” I try again.

Nothing. Nada. No one. The silence is crushing.

Panicking, I try moving my body. My legs and arms are free, but I can’t seem to move any great distance. The space is too tight. It’s what I assume a coffin would feel like if you woke after being buried alive.

Stretching out my fingers, I try fruitlessly to gain purchase on something—anything familiar—but all I find is something that feels like rough, jagged stones. Glass, maybe? I can’t see anything, and I’m blocked in on all sides. It’s so cold.

“Please! Can anyone hear me?”

Again, no response.

Where am I? How did I get here? And how do I get out?

I wake with a start, gasping for air. The nightmare of my past is always the same. I’m alone, held captive by an immovable source, and I panic. It’s too much for me to endure day in and day out.

Grabbing the cool glass of water off the nightstand, I guzzle the liquid down until I feel the memory of the dryness escaping my soul. The water helps to erase the choking dust that lines my throat, but it’s never enough to dispel the reality of the nightmare that finds me when I sleep.

I rub my eyes. There’s no use in finding sleep tonight, or any other night, really. The nightmare is always there, every time I close my eyes. I’m stuck in the past, delaying my future, and I need to be free of this.

I need my life back.

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