I was bored. I was sitting in the adjustable Star Trek chair down at Western Dental, and they were dawdling, taking forever to get to me.
I'd already read the torn-up, ancient issue of Cosmopolitan cover to cover, and there was nothing left to divert me but my imagination.

I closed my eyes. Have you ever really looked into the darkness when you close your eyes? Don't.
I stared hard until the colours began to resolve into shapes. I thought it was just my imagination seeing something where there was nothing, no different than staring into the clouds and seeing bunny rabbits, but the visions in my eyelids were not innocent little fluffy bunnies. They were monstrous faces and twisted bodies. They were humanoid, but hunched and deformed. Some had clear signs of rot. Some had dark, empty, dead eyes that looked straight into my own. They saw me looking at them and they weren't happy.

I don't know where they came from. Maybe they came in when I was dreaming. That doesn't make sense, but nothing has made sense since I looked into the darkness inside my eyes. Now I can't close them. I can't even blink. My eyelids have been taped up for days. They don't hide anymore behind the darkness and the void. I've seen them and they know it.

I can't live like this. My eyes burn so much. I am so tired. I'll have to kill myself, to end this. But I have a problem. They say that death is just like sleeping, and if I sleep, they'll be there. If I retreat into the darkness, they will be there, waiting, ready to get me.