Static

Static

It’s never truly dark when a current wakes beneath the wool snapping in the shadows as low-voltage blue humming ripples across both arms, microscopic flashes of cold light blinking into existence then dying in the same breath. Suffocating weight, anxiety stuttering thirty frames each second vibrating through the bone, skin becomes a radio tower tuned to dead frequencies, run a hand down my arm and hear dry paper crepitating sudden constellations of fuzz illuminating hairs like frozen antennae there to catch the corrupted signal. Air too thick to breathe, flesh crackling with certainty that the interference refuses to clear, transmission permanently lost, suspended forever my body no longer solid, an unstable broadcast blurred edges flickering violently within inner walls, the terminal arc, dead air.