Where They Could Not Find Me

A Story by ginsy

It is November, the wall is a dirty gray, and the sheets are moth eaten. This is all he knows.

Where They Could Not Find Me

The clouds grew closer and the wind whispered through the trees. It almost seemed to be calling to me, baying. I almost, almost, almost wanted to respond. Steady drum beats thumped in my head like a secondary heart beat, only slower, like a rock moving through molasses.

The day is dull and gray, and mist covers all of the once-green but now dead plant life outside of the window. Wind whips through the brittle branches of the birch outside, and they snap against the window like whips, they are so sharp and stinging yet I cannot feel them.

My brain feels confused, muddled, and I squint my eyes as I cannot seem to see past my immediate vicinity. I recall almost nothing, I know it is November and I know that it is cold and I know that whatever is happening is causing my head to pound when I think about it too much so I decide to just not think about it.

The door across the room creaks as if somebody is leaning or pushing up against it, sluggishly. It is only me, the window, my mattress, and the door in hear and all of it is faded like an old photograph, the walls appear to have been splashed in bleach and as soon as the thought enters my mind, the bleach stench becomes over powering, ripping my senses from me as my eyes water.

Burgundy patches blossom on the hard wood and I clench a fist into my ears.

Somebody is calling me, clearer now, but I turn over towards the dirty gray wall and ignore it; they can't get me hear. I am save. I am secure. This is where they cannot find me.

It becomes louder, all of it, the wind and the thumping and I smash my face into my moth eaten sheets and inhale so, so deeply as it reaches it's climax.

“Please wake up.”