It’s in my father’s old workshop, see just there at the end of the row.

I’ve only ever seen it in parts, for it takes its time to stalk me while laying low.

Never do I willingly go to my father’s workshop all alone.

It means to do me great harm, I can taste it in the air.

As dust settles around my feet, I hear it clicking between equipment, coming near.

“Son, you’ve got to face your fears of the dark.” Comes my father’s familiar lecture as we sit down for dinner.

‘There’s nothing in my workshop that wants to kill you, there’s nothing in there that actually can.”

My mother tells me, “Stop with these foolish stories boy! You won’t make it long in life lying as you do and carrying on about Heaven knows what.”

But they are wrong, I do not lie. It waits for me, in there, in the dark.

I am powerless to stop the relentless turn of time.

Days pass and I grow taller. My father expects more from me in his workshop.

No more can I avoid going to that place alone, for I am expected to be my father’s right hand.

Every time I cross that threshold I feel it come nearer and I am powerless to stop it.

Death is inevitable but unpredictable and I know I’ve already seen too many sunrises.

Even now I write this knowing I am seeing the last sunrise of my short life.

I go now, bound by expectation and fear.

If only they understood.

The dark thing that is the shadows will consume me, body and soul, I have no doubt of that.

So this is it, the end.

My end.


-M.E. InkOwl

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