Wasteland Deity

22 Mud

I smell mud. It sinks into my senses and reminds me of something, anything.

Memories erased by trauma.

Mud, dirt, under my fingernails, digging into my palms, clinging to my skin.

What is it?

This memory that won't take form. Why does it make me sad? Make me mourn? Why is it familiar?

When I was a child, perhaps.

Mud, always equivalent to dirty, to trouble. That's what it reminds me of.

But the memories, they won't take shape. It overwhelms my senses and I don't know why.

She should know, someone should have warned her, the pain, the tremendous pain she would feel.

This child, playing in mud, someone should have told her.