The Edge of Darkness

Themes: Addiction, Contemporary, Desperation, Dramatic
Length: 2 Minutes
Gender: Male

A man sits on the edge of a bed in a disheveled room, head in his hands. His voice is a mix of anger, frustration, and deep sorrow, occasionally rising in intensity before dropping to a near whisper. His body language shifts from restless to defeated as he speaks, as if he’s battling an internal war he’s already lost.

Every night, I tell myself this is the last time—just one more hit, one more drink, and then I’ll stop. But here I am again, staring at the bottom of an empty bottle, the needle still warm in my hand. I keep thinking I can control it, that I’m stronger than this. But it’s like trying to hold back a flood with my bare hands. The more I fight it, the more it consumes me. I’ve tried to quit, I swear I have. I’ve gone days, even weeks, thinking I’m free. But the cravings… they never really go away. They just sit there, in the back of my mind, whispering, taunting. It’s like there’s this darkness inside me, always waiting, always hungry. And I’m terrified—terrified that one day, I’m going to wake up and find that there’s nothing left of me to save.

I see the damage I’ve done. My friends—they don’t call anymore. My family? They look at me like I’m already dead, like they’re just waiting for the call. I can see it in their eyes—pity, disappointment, fear. And I hate them for it. I hate them for believing in me, for thinking I can just snap out of it, like it’s that easy. But mostly, I hate myself for proving them wrong every single time.

I’m on the edge, you know? The edge of losing everything, or maybe I already have. Sometimes, I think it’d be easier to just give in, let it take me. At least then, the pain would stop, the endless cycle of trying and failing would finally end. But there’s this part of me—small, weak—still clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, I can find my way back. But that light’s getting dimmer every day, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. I’m scared. Scared that I’ve crossed a line and there’s no coming back. Scared that this is all I’ll ever be—a slave to this… disease. But what scares me the most is that maybe, deep down, I don’t even want to be saved anymore.