Nyctophobia

Knobby knuckles whiten, fingers wrapping around the blistered wood of the aged table. Nails grating upon the slab of which the timber is scraped into valleys behind the clawed grip of trembling hands. 

 Eyes peel open wide, barring their sights to the charcoal air with anguished hope. Hope to see into the nothingness soaking the air. Drenching the body in a wretched goo, sticking legs to the creaky chair and weighing greatly on the caving chest which is at loss for air by the second.