28 x 28: February Twelve

'I walk under a lightpost and the bulb burns out. I'm ten years old and I'm terrified because I know I'm going to die. There's no one in the room and yet she's right next to me. My feet are cold but the blanket is too warm. I think about the last five years. Thoughts race through my head now; almost too fast to make sense. I look at the alarm clock. I think about tomorrow and I wonder. I can see things in front of me and I can't reach them. I'm just ahead of the dark, too afraid to turn around. I have a bad dream so I draw the pillow over my head. I step outside my head and everything is so small. I feel claustrophobic. I see my reflection and my hair is not right. Three things morph together and gnaw at my brain. I'm tired but my eyes don't close. I worry about unforeseen things. I'm afraid to do anything. I accept the way things are. The spoon should be in the sink and someone should read that book. I breathe. I feel nothing. Thoughts pull, the ground gives out. I look out my window. Everything is so small. I want to matter so much so that it makes me cry. I contemplate things I know I can't; the scenarios play out. I'm screaming inside but I can't open my mouth. I'm powerless and I'm afraid to do anything. There's someone in the room and she's gone. I close my eyes and I'm okay. I'm ten years old and I'm terrified because I know I'm going to die. I walk under a lightpost and the bulb burns out.'

Ok, I don't know where this came from, but sometimes when an idea pops in your head you have to get it down. I don't know what to think of this. It kind of freaks me out. I think this is a ghost story, but not in the way that I think. I feel like I didn't even write this, except that I did. Is it scary?