Binge

By Dante A Murray

Cold sweats. An ice pick through the back of my hand and waterboarded dreams enter in with black spiders falling from the ceiling as I scream.

Two rooms down the hall a coarse, guttural croaking begins around 1:30 a.m. and continues through the early hours of the morning until suddenly ceasing.

I imagine it stopping because someone, perhaps myself, has placed a pillow over the source and pressed until there is no struggle.

A bit harsh? Karma implications? Yet the homicidal Buddhist I am spawning never misses a mantra repetition.

My breathing is shallow, uneven.

Warm breeze, hallowed morning light.