Prolouge

 

Falling. That’s what it is. I’m falling. This rushing in my ears, this nausea building in my gut, that’s what it’s from. There must be a bottom, somewhere, I would imagine. It can’t be a real freefall, can it? I can’t remember much. No, I remember plenty. I remember the way her dark hair swayed in the wind, how it swept across her shoulders when a strong gust graced her pale face. How her blue eyes caught the rays of the sun in such a way that made them look like pieces of a shattered crystal. That’s what I remember. I can hear the sounds of the town now, the honks of the impatient drivers in their cars. The barks of the angry dogs accompanied by the loud chatter of thousands of voices, how horrid this dissonance is in comparison. Their growing closer and closer still, how depressing. Why must it always end? It’s getting lighter; the brightness it’s starting to hurt my eyes. Daytime. I feel something now; I feel it running against my fingertips, the bottom? The floor? No. My sheets. Damn.