The Night I Stopped Fighting

The ceiling shifted —

shadows thick as tar

pouring down the walls,

reaching for me like they’d been waiting.

A cough.

A sneeze.

A knock that didn’t come from the door I was staring at.

I said “Come in,”

but no one came.

That’s when I knew I’d been left behind.

Boots dragged across the floor.

I didn’t flinch.

Why bother?

They weren’t here to be stopped.

Then I was in my grandparents’ home —

or the memory of it.

Christmas lights glowed warm,

but the air burned cold.

Everything was just slightly wrong,

like a dream wearing the skin of my past.

She appeared,

and vanished faster than I could speak.

The silence after was heavier than her absence had ever been.

An office.

A nameplate knocked to the floor.

The shadow stepped in and whispered,

Don’t let her leave.

But it was too late —

she was already gone,

and so was I.

The figures came for me then.

Not rushing —

just certain.

Their smiles were hunger,

and I didn’t move when they reached out.

I prayed once,

softly, like a man not expecting an answer.

And when none came,

I understood —

this was my answer.

The abyss opened its arms.

And for the first time in months,

I felt no need to run.

No urge to fight.

Only relief that I wouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow.

So I leaned forward.

And let it close around me.