The tormentor.

I sink into the sofa and grab the remote flicking through the channels with the hope that something attracts my attention. Anything. Anything to distract me from it.

I know it’s watching me.

I can feel its acidic stare watching my every move.

I’ve tried reading, I’ve tried running on the treadmill -which lasted the grand total of 10 minutes- I’ve tried Skype calling a friend but they didn’t answer, all the while knowing it is there.

Sitting on its lofty shelf peering down on me with a condescending glare.

In lockdown, there’s nowhere to go. I can’t avoid it.

Whatever I do I feel its presence like an over-eager spectator who’s reaching out to be part of the performance.

I hold out to 3pm. Then I concede and take it down.

My tormentor, my silent observer, my solitary friend and enemy, all blended and distilled together as one, in a bottle.