Pressure
My vision has always been filled with static. It’s one of those constants in my life that I had to come to terms with. The little atoms of the air that no one else appeared to be bothered by never bothered me either, until I realized that they weren’t bothered, because they weren’t actually seeing what I was seeing. Then, I was very bothered. My hazy vision wasn’t a universal experience, and that was the truth that I have come to terms with.
Every night I close my eyes, there is a kaleidoscope of muddied colors. Nothing too exciting to look at, but definitely a distraction. I toss and turn, trying to focus on not focusing. I let the lines, shapes, and colors dance across the inside of my eyelids, until it finally lulls me to sleep.
But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the shapes and lines and colors are angry. They rapidly change and flash as if trying to alert me, trying to keep me awake.
So, that’s when I start to apply the pressure. My palms softly push on my eyes just enough to alleviate the patterns. The pressure changes them into a checkerboard, vibrating, pulsating. It isn’t any better, so I apply more pressure.
Faces begin to form in the darkness. Snarling, grimacing, monstrous faces with eyes that are too big and mouths that are too wide. They speak and shout, but I can’t hear what they are trying to say. The sight of it makes my heart race, so I add more pressure until I can’t handle it anymore.
On any other night, this practice would tire me out enough mentally to fall asleep. The static would have won, and I accept the very little sleep that I could get. Instead, I open my eyes.
And when I open my eyes, he is there. The man made of static crawling his way out of my wall. A dark, foreboding silhouette created without light. He makes no noise, but I can feel him. Static flows through my body holding me tight against my mattress. My hands shake as I struggle to cover my eyes again.
Even as I close them, he is still there. Slowly, his long limbs gain closer and closer. He’s made it out of my wall and stands at the foot of my bed. I can’t breathe, so I add some pressure.
His shape becomes squares. Black and white flash like a 3D illusion. He doesn’t leave, so I add more pressure.
The faces scream at him soundlessly. They morph around him, wide mouths snapping and drooling. The scene is more horrific than the last, so I apply more pressure.
More pressure.
More pressure.
It hurts, but the pounding in my chest desperately begs me to keep going, and going, and forcing, and forcing, until finally, relief.
No more static. No more man.
I haven’t slept so well in a very long time.
***
Mars Arias is an aspiring writer from Wichita, Kansas. Their work focuses on horror, magical realism, and LGBTQ+ themes. They enjoy writing micro and flash fiction and the ability to turn their every day life into a spooky bedtime story. They thank all of their friends they’ve forced to read said spooky bedtime stories.