The House of Wolves

Panic

He was bound. Bound from speaking, bound from moving, bound from even seeing. Submerging him in darkness. Darkness like last night, darkness like the scary places he had wandered into for the first time. His throat was raspy and his stomach yearned for something, anything, to satisfy his hunger.

He flailed about, trying to create some semblance of motion, trying to defy the invading, violating abyss which manifested in his mind. He could not imagine anything, for if he dared those vivid memories of last night would crawl back into his conscience and rip him apart. Yet by doing nothing he could not fight them either.

For the faces, the corpses, they all began to emerge around him in the emptiness around him. All he could feel was the solidness of a chair, and the itchiness of floor against his bare feet, tying him to this solid world. He used to hate chairs, especially ones as uncomfortable as this. But now, his greed had been stifled. His perceptions had become more complex, and the