Nights have turned into the roar of visceral terror.
The room has become my prison.
Every night, in the darkness, the tapping of a broom grates against my ears. Like knives in my mind, those sounds contort my thoughts.
The constant noise of someone or something sweeping the floor prevents me from sleeping.
I don’t know what it means, I can’t find a logical explanation.
Sometimes I’m able to see an ethereal figure, cloaked, infiltrated in the darkness.
Emerging slowly, almost invisible.
Its gloved hands firmly hold an old and worn broomstick that creaks with every grip.
Each time I comprehend, the light disappears, yet the dust continues to swirl in one direction.
These are my nights. With the macabre sound that the specter produces while sweeping.
A hissing lament, like the echo of a dark wind carrying forgotten secrets.
Every scrape of the broom’s bristles creates an unsettling murmur, like whispers of trapped souls.
Music that evokes affliction and condemnation.
I watch in horror as the dust lifted by the broom seems to spin in sinister spirals in the air. Slowly, the particles begin to descend, settling on the ground.
I realize that those small translucent and pale specks, I’ve seen them before.
It’s skin.
Dead skin.
My own skin.
I remember being told in school that dust is mostly composed of dead skin cells, a result of shedding.
I understand that there’s something in the night collecting every piece of me, with the patience of having time on its side.
A silent testimony to the passage of time and the fragility of life.
An amalgam of human remains.
The seemingly harmless act of sweeping is a macabre dance with mortality, a disturbing connection with the inevitable cycles of existence.
The ethereal and enigmatic figure continues to sweep the dust with a supernatural determination.
Each movement of the broom seems to tear at the very air, stripping reality of its surface layers.
The specter shows no signs of fatigue or rest, as if driven by a force beyond human comprehension.
As the figure stirs in the macabre ritual, the room seems to close in on itself, as if witnessing a forbidden act.
The air thickens, releasing an oppressive energy.
The beats of my heart seem to resonate in harmony with the creaks of the broom.
The nightly rhythm takes on a new meaning. Now I know they are reverberations of my own skin shedding.
On a slow but steady path to disintegration.
Every night, the ritual persists, a chilling metaphor of what I once was and what I have become.
On the edge between reality and delirium, I find myself drawn into the abyss of my own mind.
The room, a tomb of secrets, bears witness to my slow disappearance.
The dirt and dust seem to twist and cling, as if resisting being banished from their sanctuary.
The tapping of the broom haunts me and whispers my own condemnation.
How far will I fall before losing myself completely in the darkness?