Bright lights. That is all I see.
They come and go, and I feel I can breathe calmly again when they vanish for that quick instant. It's as if the weight of the world and moon together were taken off my shoulders by strong, caring hands when they dim. I've learned to yearn for those hands, for their fingers caress my lonely face. Their fingertips stroke my worried head, consoling the everlasting misery that lies within.
"I don't deserve the condolence," I say. The response I receive in return is still, for it is not meant to be heard, yet it is stronger than any word might ever come to be. The lights I have feared for so long faint to a dull glow and I am taken into the hands I long for. I lay in their palms for what seems too short a time, taking sweet pleasure in the brushes to my bare skin, turning the mere ache for them into a need. They have never failed to lead me towards ecstasy, entwining subtle comfort and vehement rhapsody, but they have also learned to demonstrate a bitter side.
Suddenly, I am blinded by a sharp flare and the hands press me against an imaginary wall, tightening their grip on my trembling neck. I beg for mercy, arching my torso away from the jagged rampart I am being held against and clinching my fear befallen eyes shut. Fingers stroke my tear sodden cheek, fondling my forsaken skin while I struggle to hold on to what seems to be my last breath. I seek that which is the source of all my torture with my own hands, reaching out to what is to find solely in my mind, heaving for deliverance and savoring pure impuissance and despair.
It is not until I have learned to overcome this masochistic addiction that I can turn off these lights. It is not until I have found a new addiction that I can be free.
What will it be next?