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It was always there.
I’ve always felt it, no matter where I laid down or slept. That… pressure, the feeling of being watched. Haven’t you felt it? Whenever you opened your eyes, you expected something to pop out at you, right? I’ve had that so many times, when I’ve buried myself under my covers, the hovering sensation, and the dread of opening my eyes. You keep telling yourself there’s nothing there to harm you. But you never listen. You know there is danger, unknown, yes. Eventually, you force yourself up, looking around your dark room. There is nothing but your own dread and the feeling over overwhelming exhaustion. You want to sleep, to escape the fear. You aren’t alone.
Some days, I won’t sleep. I’ll open my closet door and turn on the lights, drinking tea and trying to stay awake. The pressure won’t accumulate unless you let it. I won’t let it, though. As long as there is light on my head when I sleep, the pressure isn’t there.
But if the light goes out…
What if there isn’t a light? Then I sleep. Or, at least, I attempt to. Sleep is essential to my sanity and my physical health. You try staying up three days in a row. You’ll feel the effects on your body, slowly deteriorating your mind. The pressure has gotten to you, hasn’t it? It has gotten to me too.
The pressure knows what it is doing. It’s making me insane. But I’m able to write, right? I’ll write out everything that I’ve done. Then I’ll be sane. Yes, I’ll be sane again.
One night my parents were leaving for the country. My uncle was to watch over me and wake me up for school in the morning. I had asked them if I could leave the hall light on, and they had said yes, if only out of the urgency of leaving. I was happy for that moment; the pressure wouldn’t get to me today. As I turned on the light and went to bed, it went off. For a moment, I feared it was… I didn’t know what I feared; I just knew something was bad. But it was my uncle instead. I had gotten up, turned on the light again. He looked angry; the son of a bitch always wanted his way. The light didn’t even affect him, never mind the pressure. He called me a brat and turned the light off again. I fell asleep with tears in my eyes.
The next time was when there was no light. I was forced into my dreams without the aid of light, and this time, I dearly paid for it. My dreams were nothing, and ever expanse of darkness. There was no sound, no horrors to be fought. I instead awoke, the pressure around me, the sound of a voice I my head.
I didn’t understand, of course. I was simply eleven at the time, and my eyes were already open. Look at what? I wondered, but never received an answer. I eventually fell asleep once more, the pressure still around me.
This was in the light, this time. My sanity was wearing thin. I was at a friend’s house for her birthday. Being the nice guy I was, I decided to visit. We were in her room when I started shivering. It was at least in the fall time, but her room was warm. I didn’t notice anything was wrong when I started talking about it. The Pressure. Of course, she had no idea what I was talking about. I described the pressure as a three headed entity, a god of sorts. I believe she thought me insane. I’m sane, though. I’m writing, aren’t I? I’m sane I’m sane I’m sane.
Eventually, I collapsed onto her bed and was covered with blankets. I eventually calmed, but I was still wrong. Pressure was everywhere. This was the first time it was in the light.
I can’t escape now.
Pressure is everywhere, you don’t know what you think is wrong but it’s there and you feel it. It’s clogging up my ears and into my head but I’m sane and I know it
I’m sane I’m sane I’m sane
I’ve woken up now. It’s dark outside.
I wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. My parents were crying when they called me. They told me my uncle was dead. I didn’t understand at first, but then I knew. Pressure. It had gotten to him as it had gotten to me. There is blood staining my hands, but I know it’s not mine. It can’t be my uncle’s, right?
I looked on my new this evening. Apparently my friend has gone to the hospital in critical condition. I’m not sure why, however. When they got a shot of her, she looked fine, however pale. She appeared to be choking or gasping, trying to speak. Instead, she threw up black liquid. It looked so familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was, however, concerned. I made a note to visit her tomorrow.
I wonder why I cannot feel the pressure anymore. It’s not pressure, actually. It’s more like a velvet curtain has been laid on my mind at all times. There is not fear or dread when I sleep; instead I feel a strange pleasurable sensation when I close my eyes. Actually, I never feel shock anymore. When my friend died after I visited her was not surprising. Neither was the fact that I couldn’t remember anything else other than arriving at the hospital and walking to her room. I’m actually happy that she died. She didn’t deserve to live with pressure. She crumbled easily under it. It’s a shame, really. It would have been nice if I had someone to relate to.
More and more people have been dying around me. I’m not sure what to make of it. At first it was my boss, a man who slept in his office whenever we were working. He always kept his light on. I can’t quite remember going to work yesterday, but I’m sure everything went as usual. I asked my co-workers, and they said I apparently asked the boss a question before leaving.
I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been doing something wrong. I’ve been called into questioning by the police. They suspect I know something about the murders, which is just putting it lightly that I am a suspect. Of course, the velvet on my mind didn’t let me show my fear or dread. In fact, I felt quite at ease. This was easy. My tongue was the darkest and smoothest of velvet when I spoke. They believed me. Of course they believed me.
This will be my last entry.
No, I am not going to die. Instead, I will join the pressure. I haven’t crumbled, no. I want to do this. I’ve gotten it all set up. My parents and my co-workers are invited, along with all of my friends. I lured them into a sort of party, celebrating a friend’s so-called birthday. Of course, this friend doesn’t exist.
There is a knife, which I will use, on my staircase. They will see me joining the pressure as the velvet drips from my neck. I will smile as wide as I ever had, feeling the sweet release I have been dying for.
And my last words, you may ask?
I’m under pressure.