Counting the hours

The clack, clack, clack of the split numerals of the old alarm clock turning over, counting of each second as the darkness creeps ever closer, not just the dark of a night-time room but something darker still, deeper, something other that glides across the floor, silent, patient as the grave and just as cold. Each night as he lies awake listening to the clack, clack of the clock he can feel it getting closer. He knows that one night, maybe tonight it will be close enough. He can almost smell it’s rank perfume of decay, stale food, rotting garbage smell of old basements, broken sewer pipes, a gagging cloying stench of putrefaction that invades his senses, overwhelming.

Motionless, trapped by sleep paralysis from a sleep that eludes him his skin crawls, fear coursing through his veins as the darkness nears. Formless, void, shapeless as the night itself, still it threatens more than any knife wielding manic from the bloodiest slasher flick.  He licks his dry, cracked lips as his eyes, forced open by cold, dread terror track from side to side scanning the very limits of his peripheral vision. If only he could see it, if only he could catch a glimpse to know how far it still had to go to reach him….


About Autistic writing

Im 46, autistic and vocal about it, a specialist autism mentor in higher education, embarking on my MEd in adult autism, autistic advocate and campaigner, writer and co-founder of asP - the autism strategy partnership #differentnotdamaged #askaboutasP

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s