• BLACKSERIES | no. 15 •
DEADLINE

Too tightly wound. Too long ignored.
Too much thought. Too little felt.

"It comes back in flashes.
The rain on my face.
Like cold needles piercing through my skin.
The mud thick around my boots,
pulling me deeper...
as if it wanted to keep me."

Until my body blocks, and my head keeps pushing.
Until my head scatters into fragments and I function on habit.

"I remember the cold.
The kind that bites through bone.
My feet bleeding,
skin torn raw.
Every step I feel my wounds."

No way out, no way through, no way back.
No rest, no space, no escape.

"And the dark—"
A silence so heavy it pressed against my chest.
"Alone. Always alone.
The trench walls closing in.
Damp earth,
the smell of rust and rot."

No pause. No slack. No boundary.
Always forward. Always more. Always better.

"It keeps coming back...
This memory, this...
the crosshairs steady in front of me."
My breath seizes—
"I can’t move, can’t blink.
Tears fill my eyes."

Don't fall. Don't doubt. Don't feel.
Don't stop. Don't breath. Do not look back.

"Because the face I see
is my own.
It is always me.
And I pull the trigger.
Every fucking time—
I pull the trigger..."


• Pencil on Paper •
• 420x594 •
• Pitt Graphite Matt •

© het hart van Bron. All rights reserved.