honeybun

The Thing

There’s a tiny thing living in her apartment.

Reduced to thing, for lack of a better word working in tandem with the power of illusion. There was never an agreement, no time spent sorting the relationship between space and money.

Her inclination to think of the thing as intrusive was cut short by knowing she brought the thing. It stuck to her, a gummy little ghost. A terribly cartoonish way to describe the thing. 

No corporeal form or voice, not even a scent betrayed its existence. Despite the pressure exerted by the thing, only she could feel it. Alone in her perception, though the pressure spilled over and onto everything around her.

It was not delicate and kind like water. It was lithe and slippery. Sticky with a quicksand panic. 

Unforgiving like oil.

It is composed of every pitfall and speed bump incurred along her journey. The amalgamation of fear and doubt; a tightly snapped ball of rubber bands she sat on everyday.

It understandably procured discomfort. Especially when she ignored it. 

And she hadn’t paid attention.

Assuming all roads morphed smooth. 

She was wrong. 



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