Laying on your back, you let the small boat's gentle rocking slow your heartbeat. The sky is cloudy; little patches of blue filter between the expanse of grey clouds. Every now and then, a small droplet of water will hit your face, or your arm, or your foot. The pitter-patter of rain on water mixes with the rest of the noise.
Cicadas in the woods at the riverbank. Birds soaring overhead, darting for cover. Crickets in grass patches. The small, chilly breeze, ruffling your hair.
Whatever sun manages to find its way through the clouds shines on you. It's bright. At least, you think it was. It's been a while since you've seen it.
Your eyes, though open, see nothing. Not black, not white, not anything. Like trying to see with your arm. It wasn't always like this. Just two weeks ago, you were running through the wheat fields, trying to catch fireflies in a jar.
That night, you'd woken up to a bald figure hunched over you. He'd cradled your head and dug into your sockets and ignored your thrashing and soon, you'd found yourself gasping awake. You'd moved, relieved you could. You'd opened your eyes, which were thankfully present.
Though unseeing.
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
