Failure to Perform

Desperate Times Prose: Volume V

Consciousness resumes.
I sit in a chair in a pitch black room,
My hands tied behind my back.
I hear approaching footsteps.
A door opens.

*click*

A spotlight blinds my eyes.
It is too abrasive. I must look away.
I hear mumbling as people file in.
It smells like business casual.
I see nothing but the same old panoply of colored darkness.
Specks of light shoot in to my eyes, burning my retinas.
Something inside me wants to scream or kill or perhaps do laundry
But the blacked out visions of melancholy horror continue
The void laughs
The void judges how I sit
I want to get out of this chair, but the footsteps grow louder and I recoil in fear.

The crowd chatter crests, then slowly subsides into a silent hum.
If only I could see through the silence
Footsteps approach in the dark.
An outstretched arm holds an object in the light
My hands are no longer tied.
It seems I am free to go but something compels me to stay

I am handed a guitar
I am handed dumbfoundedness
Out of the void comes a voice that says 'Do It.'
I hold the instrument in my arms and try to play something
I cannot strum, I cannot pick, not even one note
I look up, the void's eyes are fixed upon me
My knees knock in to each other like crazy maniacal chattering teeth

Quiver stuck, have no luck
They await something
I'm supposed to give them something entertaining
I'm supposed to give them something inspiring

I cannot see in front of me
I cannot see in back
I cannot seem to breathe right
My lungs seize up - My head disoriented, tells me I'm too tight to move

There is no guitar anymore
There is no void in front of me
There is only a dimly lit room
My hands are tied behind my back

I hear the sound of approaching footsteps
Fearful anticipation wraps itself around me tight
I know the crowd awaits me,
but I'd rather do laundry instead