The wall of dread stood before her tall, dark, and imposing. Small sparkles of light were visible behind it, at least she thought they were. She believed they were. She wondered if it was enough to break through.
It hadn’t been the first time that she had stood before this wall, but for some reason – fear or another – she was at a loss for how she had done it before. Broken through to the other side. Perhaps, she thought to herself, I just have to try.
Every bone in her body was stiff, her muscles were shaking. The beat of her heart was rattling her chest, but she felt nothing. Dead beats. The whole lot of them were dead beats. And yet, she couldn’t get away. She couldn’t get out of her own way.
Way back, sitting somewhere between her vertebra was a hard, stabbing notch. The ache to do something, and the paralyzing-fear of actually doing it. But why, she wondered, was it so hard to just be happy. She used to be happy. She used to do it with ease.
Things changed. People changed. People also died waiting for things to get better. She didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want to leave. To cause hurt. She just. . . well. She just died, sitting in the arm chair, he told the first responders. She had been sitting there, waiting for me to join her. We were going to watch a program. And then she died.