Post by ali on Aug 31, 2019 4:04:42 GMT -5
You remember a time before the war, a memory worn by years of endless waking nightmares, but still there, fractured and dull. It is a time before heart break. Before you felt as if your soul was dying. As if it was always dark no matter how bright the sun shone.
Not as dark as the darkness behind your kids as you drift in and out of consciousness.
You dream of chalk scraping against cobbles as a a dog barks and work siren calls. Sun sprinkles over your skin, dark hair waist length, tucked behind your ear as you draw numbers on the ground. A giggle-
The memory fractures and you awake, blood still dripping from your nose, wherever they have you sways from side to side…
Bare footed against the cobble stone, you dance up and down the mutual of numbers and boxes you have drawn on the ground. A him fills your chest as you repeat the movements again and again-
You wake and hear a ringing, a high pitched hum that fades again as your mind does too
Chalk covered hands you draw. Scratching a flower against the earth. You have not seen one before, you draw from memory, from a picture book your father gave you for you last birthday- you were 9 then-
You stir again 6 years later, before it's gone again.
A concrete metropolis. Dirt and grime. Poor. Impoverished. These are all words you've heard people used in shallow whispers, thinking no one will hear them. Flowers do not grow here, not even between the cracks in the pavement where the earth pokes through. Or, at least you've not seen one.
And you do not see one now, dazed, feet dragging against linoleum beneath bright white lights.
'Gaia!' your mother's voice calls, you sit, turn, chalk stained and smiling. You see her in the doorway, waving for you to come in. To come home-
And then you wake in a strange place, you wake and you realise. You are alone.
