They All Cry For You

Naked

    "You're going to die one day," it whispers to him.

    From a dead sleep, he jolts.

    "You're going to die one day, and nothing you've done will matter."

     A cold sweat overtook his forehead, and his feet. Feeling feverish, he grabbed at his pec from beneath the blanket, it quivered with the anxious beating of his heart.

     "You will be forgotten."

    His attempts to swallow back his tears were vated by the tensing and filling of his throat with choked sobs.

    He wanted to tell someone so badly, but describing existential dread proved to be just as difficult as living with it.

    Every night, his sleep interrupted by the thought, ripping him from rest, piercing him like birdshot.

    He cried, pulling a cluster of blanket closer to him. Cold and alone, all he could think of was death.

    "It doesn't matter."

    And he cried quieter.