Gone

You try not to look. You try not to look because you know it will end in failure. But you can’t resist sneaking a peek every now and then. Surely no human is above that.

You try not to look because a glance is all it takes. For your hard work to disappear down the drain. All the months spent poring over every last detail of your plan. You don’t want it all to have been for nothing.

You try not to look, but you know you are failing. You know you are. Deep inside, you like it. You like the fact that you are failing. Deep inside you want to look.

Your eyes swivel and you crane your neck. But it’s gone. By the time your eyes have moved, everything has changed. Everything is gone. With nary a glimpse of what you wanted to see, you continue your hike.

You failed again today, but tomorrow could always be better. You smile as you realise you’re lying to yourself again. You do not want tomorrow to be better. You want everything to stay the same; you want today repeated over and over.

The doctor told you your medication would work. But what happened today was proof that it didn’t. You saw it – the shimmer, the little dance of motes in the air, the way the light bent around the outline of the half-formed figure that your brain was happy to fill out for you. That silhouette of a person you know all too well.

You saw it in the corner of your eyes. You tried not to look, but you wanted to see it so badly. And by the time you turned, it was gone. Stupid! Should have turned earlier.

But that’s all okay. There’s something new forming in the corners again; something’s stirring. This time, you’ll see it for sure. And the doctor doesn’t have to know about it.

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