Still Waters

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And Then…

The girl is beginning to return. She takes possession of her own unconscious skin as if wriggling into a wetsuit. Graceless, she slithers her way into fleshy cul-de-sacs and dead-ends. She comes to life as if somebody were blowing air into a deflated rubber doll. She can’t work out where her arms and legs should go. Can’t decipher up from down. Can’t remember how to breathe.

Gradually, she realises she cannot see. Her senses are all jumbled; smells and sights and sounds all swirled around like wet paint. She fancies she can touch colour; can taste crimson and iron. Can reach out with her hands and grope at great liquid handfuls of darkness.

She considers herself. She feels somehow waxy. Oddly soft. A pig-fat candle. Drowned flesh.

At length, she becomes aware of the high, ringing sensation in the centre of her skull. She thinks of piano wire, pulled tight and then plucked with a coin.

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