Darkness drops its anchor, spreading like ink. Silence holds me gently as my existence unrolls before me like fragile, ancient parchment.
Failures, sins, stains; the pins that track an empty, wasted life.
I scream into the void inside me. I rake my nails across this map of my soul until it is disfigured, shredded, destroyed.
Malignant fingers pull at the threads, stretching them tight.
Light fades and drains away. I am as black as death inside. Wings flutter toward me, stitching death around me like a spider wrapping its prey.
The map burns. Soon I will be ashes and dust.
Author bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a dysfunctional family and looking after his attention seeking dog. His stories have been published in Dark Edifice, Short & Twisted, 101 Fiction and strippedlit500. You can follow Shannon on Twitter at @ShannonBell1967.
Terminal is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
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