Waindale

forty-five. the view from outside

I have the most wonderful dreams of the most beautiful things. Some of it is small and simple, and the rest is so very big, so very vast and infinite in nature, filled to the brim with noise and color and entities beyond my own imagination. I entered this space inside my mind and believed I must have joined the essence of the universe—I must have merged with everything, body and soul—but when I saw him, I knew that I was somewhere else other than death. I saw his face but heard words of another.

"You will be Luna."

Sometimes I hear it specifically as a whisper or a call, but other times I feel as if the idea has entered my mind as a thought placed by the will of someone else. I am open for anyone and everyone to peer inside or leave a message. It may not be the finality and deconstruction of death, but what I'm experiencing is far from life. It is both the white space of nothingness and the suffocation of everything.

I see her face too, but she appears essentially as light, a creamy, luminous glow that I saw nearly every night before. I float in this space with an invisible current carrying me along through the turns and drops of what is—well, I'm not sure. But there is no desire inside of me to know. Instead, there is an acceptance that this is what is. This is beyond. Then, in my period of both seconds and centuries, the ghostly feeling of touch sparks on my skin. I return then, to the front of my mind where all is painted, where the canvas grows, and where things flourish upon it. My eyes open and I see the artists' work. Although it is masked by daylight, it is there, her work, her splotch of paint.

My chest takes in air for the first time, as if I had been vacant from my body and no longer required it to function. My body has been here the entire time, though—breathing without me.

My hand falls upon my stomach, sensing life from within me that is separate from my own soul. There is another, small soul slowly blooming. My lip quivers from this physical conformation. Before I was grasping at straws, but now, now I feel it, truly feel it. Did my father give this to me? My body needed time to accept the overwhelming surge of power, and I was too distracted by pain to consider what exactly he returned. Previous instances seemed to offer minor, yet satisfying changes, but this time it is so much more. There is enough energy and potential within me that I am sure I can rise a man from his grave if I tried, let alone a dried leaf on the pavement.

I steadily sit up in our bed, no longer experiencing the crushing pressure in my head that I left with. I'm not tired, or worn-out, but rather coherent and vivid. There is a sudden desire ignited within me to examine myself in the mirror, so I spring from the sheets and leap to the bathroom like a young gazelle. In front of the mirror, I lift my shirt and inspect—turning to the side and no longer needing to stretch into odd positions to see a slight protrusion.

I rub my minuscule belly and drop my shirt. I spin to leave but halt at the site of Adam's mother. My throat takes in a quick gasp of air, and when she doesn't vanish like a ghost or strange vision, I begin to notice the pounding of my own heart in my ears.

Her hard eyes stare at my face then fall to my stomach. She's unwavering, a statue to represent all that is unforgiving, disapproving, and severe.

"What are you doing here?" The words pour out my mouth due to pure instinct. "W-Where's Adam?"

"He isn't here," she says simply.

"Where is he?"

I barely hear the sound of her drawing in a breath, but I see her chest rise ever so faintly. She says again, "He isn't here," but adds, "he left. And you—you're pregnant?"

I cross my arms. "Where did he go?"

"For how long?"

"Not long," I assure her. "You know more than I do, right? There's no point in asking questions about it if it's destined to die inside of me. Just tell me where he is."