The East Wing
Small bursts of pain throb behind my eyes as galaxies of light explode in the darkness. I dare not look. Tension and dread hold me hostage, cold sweat drenching the thin sheet. My flimsy layer of protection. Heart racing, I pull it tight over my hunched shoulders with as little movement as possible, trying to burrow myself into cessation. A rustle of cloth penetrates my void, a baited hook to catch my attention. My skin prickles under the unsettling awareness but I refuse to budge for I know what lurks above me, I can feel its glistening eyes watching as its long fingers toy with the fabric of its cloak. A faint rasp of breath skirts the edge of silence, daring me to acknowledge it. Instead, I wrest my focus to my own shallow breathing, forcing myself to count the length of each inhalation. The numbers are as rigid as my petrified body, a concrete point of refuge that I cling to desperately. We remain like this for an eon, but the effort of concentration takes its toll and the rise and fall of my chest lulls my thoughts into a drifting cadence. The order of the numbers no longer important. Silence ebbs back in as the raspy breathing fades, as though the shadow above me is retreating into the darkness.
