The Storm

I wish I could tell someone. I’m scared. I’m scared of the storm that’s raging outside. Each time the lightning strikes, the empty space comes alive with light. But only for a second, before everything plunges back into darkness. The windows are whistling. No matter how hard I try to fasten them shut, the storm finds a way to reach me. The rustling trees sound like apocalypse and the rattling doors feel like monsters trying to break in. I’ve never felt more alone. I try to think happy thoughts, and for a moment it works. But within seconds they’re replaced by the voice. The same voice that derides me for being happy, the voice that tells me that I don’t deserve it. The voice that keeps me from feeling too lucky, being too content. The voice loves the storm. I hate it. It seems like it’ll go on forever. Can’t imagine a more miserable infinity than this. The lightning is striking closer with each passing second; the clouds are angrier, and the shadows darker. The goosebumps on my skin are the physical manifestations of the chaos in my head. But one singular thought can be heard out loud. The storm, make it stop. I wish I could tell someone. I’m scared.

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