It stands out on the flat maple floor. Everything about it. The color like desert sand, the glinting shiny scales, and the way it slithers across the room. All of them scare him, but nothing matches the sheer terror pulsating throughout his trembling body when he hears the steady shake of its rattle.
Creeping across the floor slowly yet purposefully, it makes its way toward him. As it slithers in circles around him, he fears for his life. It taunts him. Coming close, then drifting away; circling back, then reversing its course. Frozen by the dread, his feet are suddenly heavy. His entire body vibrates but he cannot move. It slides through the gap between his legs. It inspects his feet. It gets closer and closer. He tries to run, but his feet are stuck. And then, as he hears the doorbell chime, it disappears.
He opens the door to see a small, brown box in front of him. Taking short but deep breaths, he picks it up, brings it inside, and gingerly places it on the table. He looks out the window and sees the low green hills and valleys, the majestic trees, and the bright shining sun. He steps outside and looks around him. There is nothing nearby. He enjoys his secluded location, but every so often, he is reminded that he is completely alone.
He was not always isolated. He remembers a time when he was sociable. A time when he lived with, interacted with, even liked other people. But that era ended when they all left. One by one, until everyone was gone. Some left voluntarily. Others, he pushed away. Some simply left his life. Others left the world. His relationships built a wall around him. And as they left, that wall was taken down step by step — brick by brick — until he was left in the ruins. Unprotected. Alone. Deprived of his joy, his hope, and his faith in humanity.
He reenters his house, sits down, and examines the package. He lifts it up, feeling the smooth cardboard rub against his warm palm. He admires the way its corners are pointy without being sharp. He relishes its distinct smell. He admires its unique dull shade of brown. And he loves the way the package makes him feel desirable: something he has not felt in a long time. So he opens it. Takes a deep breath. His lips curve upwards to form a smile and he peeks inside. But then he sees something move. A flash of beige. He stands up and instantly freezes. He hears it again: the rattle.
He screams, but there is no one nearby. He tries to run, but his feet are nailed to the ground. And then it makes its way out of the box. He can almost feel its forked tongue against his skin. He can detect its beady eyes focusing on their target. He sweats profusely as it inches towards his toes. He squirms, but his feet stay firmly planted on the hardwood. It hisses as it slithers across the floor. And as it creeps towards his legs, it creeps into his mind. He is taken over by vivid dystopian nightmares. And finally, the immense dread flooding his body gives him the power to yank his feet away from the floor. And he runs.
Running from his package. Running from his table. Running from his room. Running from his home. Running from the hills. Running from the loneliness. Running from his life. He runs even though his feet hurt. He runs even though his bones hurt. He runs even though his mind hurts. He runs past a neighborhood. He runs through a forest. He keeps running and he feels like he will never slow down. He feels unstoppable as he reaches a desolate field. But as he runs he sees a sliver of movement in the luscious green grass. Although he can detect the paranoia seeping into his thoughts, he tells himself it is nothing. But he slowly increases his pace. And then he thinks he sees its serpentine figure. He can almost make out the small black eyes. But all of his worst suspicions are confirmed the moment he hears the unmistakable sound of the rattle.
He will not stop. But it will not stop either. He keeps running, but he can never outrun it. It will always catch up to him. The faster he runs, the faster it gets. If he slows down, it matches his pace.
He can never get past it but it will never be past him. And he knows he cannot fight it alone.
He clenches his fists. His fingernails dig into his palms so tightly they are drenched with warm, red blood. But he cannot stop. He will not stop. Because he knows that once he stops to think about it, he will never be able to leave.
It creeps behind him. He tries to run faster, but he has reached his limit. He knows he cannot win the war. Its head shoots forward with a burst of speed. Its pointy fangs find the flesh on his calf. And as its mouth shuts, his fate is sealed. He falls to the ground and wails as he feels its ice-cold scales against his skin. He feels its weight on his body as it crawls all over him. Paralyzed, terrified, and enraged, his breaths get shorter and heavier. Tears stream down his face. He opens his mouth to scream but nothing comes out. And the soft rattle echoes inside his ear until he hears nothing else.
He sees it climb up his legs, across his torso, and onto his neck. It reaches his face. Now, he sees the matte scales shine as they reflect the light of the sun. It glides smoothly across his lips. He can feel its cool body and hear the soft hiss it emanates. As it creeps up his cheek and across his forehead like a gentle brush, he shuts his eyes. He feels the contrast between its smooth front and rough back when its tail ever so slightly scrapes his exposed eyelids. And once he accepts his fate, he feels like he is drowning in a sea; a sea of peace. He absorbs the light and warmth of the yellow sun and the refreshing gentle breeze on his body. He feels the blades of grass graze his ears.
And then it leaves. Its work is done. On the outside, he remains unchanged. But on the inside, he is broken down. And there is not a single soul nearby that can build him back up.
