Tonight she read a book in bed. Folded herself under cool silks and sought out creatures in shady nooks and crowned herself in anemone and galloped free along the stream, wind caressing her cheeks, dangled fingers in the blue and kicked off her shoes, running barefoot in the grass instead.
Most nights, she falls hard asleep. Grazes her feet on cutting rocks, crouched slippery in the dark and wet. Hauled into the current, she’s whirling faster, through roiling rapids, churning fizz, the chill fills her nose, cannot breathe, no longer knowing who she is. Or when.
Thrust over the edge for a moment – weightless – and then battered under a barrage of recurring dread, sups on stones and slimy weed, tangled twists around her wrists, rushing water upon her head.
Dark shapes follow, but her feet are lead. She tries to jump but falls instead. It’s her own bed. It’s her own bed.
Most nights.
Writing Prompts
This was written in response to the beautiful picture prompt from Sadje at Keep it Alive. Pop across and write something of your own.
Also in response to the Three Things Challenge from Pensitivity: Wrist, Twist, Tryst.