The Wrong Shadow

Surreal

October 12. The dealer called it a "suppressant." He claimed the previous owner had a surplus of composure. I paid for the relief. I wanted the grief to stop feeling like a physical puncture in my chest. The application was seamless. At first, the numbing worked. The world became a muted painting. But the shadow is too heavy. It does not feel like an absence of light. It feels like a drape of wet, oily wool stitched to my heels. When I walk, there is a lag: a distinct, cold drag. This afternoon, I stood still for three minutes. I watched the wall. The shadow didn't. It reached out. It brushed against the edge of the doorframe while I remained frozen. It is not mirroring me anymore; it is rehearsing. The weight is increasing. I can feel it pulling, trying to pivot my ankles toward the hallway. I am a passenger.