The Rocking Chair (repost)

He sat naked in the rocking chair, swallowed by the dark room around him. The door was closed. The three windows, wide open. Cold wind whistled in, brushing his bare skin, making the thin white curtains billow like ghostly hands reaching out. Outside, the moon played hide and seek with the clouds, its pale light cutting sharp shapes against the walls. The shadows it left behind were alive, twisting and shifting as if taunting him.

The chair creaked beneath him, its slow, rhythmic sound cutting through the silence. Each rock forward sent another wave of tension through the room. The floorboards had grown loose from years of wear, remembering the weight of every footstep, every shift of his body. Back and forth, back and forth. The repetition was almost meditative. Almost. But the calmness he craved remained out of reach. Sleep was not an option. Not tonight. Not with them lurking. Waiting. Everwake.

His mind was both void and chaos. A vortex of thoughts he could not hold ontoand yet, nothing. Heat radiated from his chest one moment, burning him from the inside out. The next, the cold night air sent shivers across his skin. Nothing felt right. Everything was wrong. But still, he rocked.

The cushions beneath him were invisible in the dark, but he knew every flaw. The tear at the back, the stains underneath. He felt them beneath his weight like the scars that marred his own skin. Each imperfection carried a story. Each one a reminder of the man he had been. And the man he had become.

The moon inched across the sky, dragging thin clouds with it. From the tree below his window, an owl hooted, its call slicing through the night. Sharp. Dissonant. Another reminder of what he was. Alone. Always alone.

He craved a cigarette. His throat burned for the scratch of nicotine, for the warmth of a drink. But he could not move. The chair was a prison. The walls were closing in. He was trapped. Not just by the darkness of the room, but by the darkness inside him. The shadows on the walls danced, mocking him, laughing at his misery. If he were stronger, he would fight them. Stand up. Tear them apart. But he was not strong. Not anymore.

A memory clawed its way to the surface. Her. The only woman he had ever loved. He remembered the softness of her skin, the way her voice once soothed him. There had been a time when love was something he could hold, something he could give and receive. But he had pushed her away, just like he pushed everyone away. He had been too afraid of letting her see who he really was. Now, no one could love him. Even if they tried, he would ruin it. He always did.

The rocking grew faster. The creak of the wood, more urgent. The rhythm matched the chaos in his mind. The voices rose, climbing from whispers to angry shouts. He slapped his temple hard with his palm. “Stupid.” The word slipped out before he could stop it. A weak protest against the madness inside him. The ghosts in his head remained. The curtains rustled with the wind. He froze.

They were here. They had come for him.

His breath caught in his throat. The air turned heavy. If he stayed still, maybe they would not see him. If he did not move, did not breathe, they might leave him alone. He held himself rigid. His mind spun with possibilities. The shadows crept closer, ready to drag him into the abyss.

The owl called again. Too distant to save him now.

He wanted to close his eyes. To scream. To do anything to escape. But his body betrayed him. Frozen. The weight of his sins pressed down, crushing him. Suffocating him. The terror of everything he had done, and everything he had failed to do, stared into his pale, red-rimmed eyes.

For a moment, clarity broke through. None of this is real. It is all in your head. The shadows. The voices. The fear. They cannot hurt you.

A grimace spread across his face. Then, without warning, laughter bubbled up from deep inside. First a soft chuckle. Then a loud, manic laugh. His shoulders shook as the sound filled the room, bouncing off the walls like the ghosts in his head. The chair rocked harder, faster. The rhythm wild. Erratic.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The moon faded, giving way to the early light of dawn. The shadows shrank into the corners. The owl had fallen silent. Even the wind had stilled, the curtains hanging limp.

He tried to exhale, to let go of the tension in his chest. Only a wheezing breath came out. His body was soaked with sweat, cold and clammy, like a second skin. But still, he rocked. Back and forth, as the memories played on a loop inside his head.

He deserved this. Every bit of it. The torment. The isolation. The terror. His punishment.

There was no redemption. No salvation.

His eyes fluttered closed, a twisted smile on his face.

Maybe next time he would fight back. Maybe next time he would claw his way out of the darkness.

Or maybe, just maybe, he would surrender to it. Forever.