And the world fades away, and I find myself curled up in a nest woven from straw that encloses me all the way around. There’s light coming from somewhere, because I can see. Outside? What’s outside? I’ve a feeling I have never known.
A friendly echo, a hum. A message carried upon it that I am the only one now.
I run my fingers along the straw above my head, and they tingle with a purple glow. Every strand contains a narrative. I can see them playing out, quickly, slowly. Full of wonder and specificity, but really they are only straw. There’s comfort in that and I snuggle, mentally and physically.
Forced, though, out into the clinical white and bleach. Into the faces paid to express concern, into the vulgarity of a body not my own. Scratching on the inside, but all they want is language, sense. It has to make sense so they can tick the boxes.
A box unticked is a restless soul indeed. Cursed.
I can feel the dark in everything, like it’s dripping, vibrating, coiling. Low frequency. This is the wrong straw, this is not my narrative. I lurch out of bed, knock over a full glass of water. Fall straight to my knees. Cold, uninviting tile. Abused bone. Helpful hand. Hemlock around the neck.
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