Will the clock ever stop ticking? That’s what I wonder. Hours, that’s how long you’ve been gone. You said you’d only be gone for a bit, but so many hours are longer than a bit. Tick tock; another minute passes, and you still aren’t back. Monophobia, also know as autophobia, more accurately, the fear of being alone. My biggest fear, a fear I dread. My monophobia takes over; I freak out, because what if you don’t come back? What would I do then? Every minute is like a sharp pain, a tear in my heart. A text would help, just tell me you’re okay and that you’ll be back. I get so sick to my stomach at the thought of being alone for a long time.

Can you feel the emptiness in the pit of your stomach? I feel it; I can’t eat, the emptiness is too much. Maybe you can’t even see it in me, but I have a drastic case of monophobia. I carry a fear that I can’t get over. When will someone be back? Just someone, anyone. Don’t leave me alone, please. My hands are scarred up from picking at them so much; a scratch for each moment I’m alone. Please come back. The weight of this fear is too heavy for my shoulders to carry. The fear of being alone is too much for me. I can’t handle it. My empty stomach and my scarred up hands and the shivers I get worrying about how long you’ll be gone, but more importantly how long I’ll be alone. The monophobia eats away at me. Will I break into tears? I might. I can’t stand being alone. I dread it.

I run my scraped up fingers through my deep ebony brown hair. My body is as cold as ice, even though I am bundled up in clothes. My skin is tanned from the warm summer sun that once was; although, now it’s winter. My archaic, deep wine red, sweatshirt droops from my body, and my midnight leggings stick to my legs. My worn, tattered, converse are back laced tightly against my ankles. I am a space on the couch, all alone. My lips are cracked, and on the edge of bleeding from the nervous lip bites that I tend to do. I am heavy, not physically heavy, but I feel heavy in sorrow and suffering.

As I sit alone in an empty, old house, I wonder about the stillness. I wonder about how the cold wooden floors feel against my feet; and how the wallpaper on the walls is peeling at the seams. The house is so still, empty, except for me. The cool breeze of the ceiling fans cause a slight shiver to come over mean, but at least they cause enough noise that it is not dead silent. I sit on my ragged brown couch and turn on the sixty-inch television. I click through channel after channel, just to keep my mind busy. Hours have passed since you left and it’s beginning to get late. As I stare blankly at the TV, I wonder why I’m still up waiting for you to come back. Sleep is a blissful escape from pain. I should be in bed.

When the TV starts to bore me, and I can no longer sit and mindlessly watch, I get up off of my lone spot on the couch. I drag one foot in front of the other to just get me across the room. I head to my cold sterile looking bathroom; it reminds me of a hospital. I look into my dirty mirror and realize that I look like a mess. I look almost as sick as I feel. I’ve given up on you coming home tonight. I brush through my soft hair and brush my eggshell teeth. I head up to my frigid, petite room. I lay in my room;  the fan is on to drown out the sound of cars passing that aren’t yours. The clock reads 11:11 pm and I wish you would answer me. I know you won’t so I go to bed, praying that I’ll see you or at least someone in the morning.

Monophobia is a part of me. I don’t know how long I will feel like this, and I don’t know how to stop feeling like this. What I do know though is that I do not want to be alone, ever. I cannot function by myself, nor do I want to. Maybe I’m holding onto this, either way, I can’t be alone, because it is too much for me. Maybe one day I won’t feel so alone.