This is a short piece I wrote last night. It kind of just flowed. I saw the prompts on Describli, and one resonated. I had to write this, there was no choice.
I’v’e had some useful feedback on it on Describli. If anyone has anything to add, feel free. 🙂
I reach out my hand. Shadows engulf it. They swallow the fingers, the thumb. I clench my fist. I can still feel. It’s still there.
So why do I feel so numb inside?
I bring my hand back into the light. The pool of yellow cast by the lamp.
An open notebook lays on the desk, my shadow moving over the blank pages.
I watch them for a moment. Further evidence that I still exist.
So why do I feel like this? Why do I feel like I don’t exist?
The ticking of the clock comes back into my conciousness. I looked up. It’s still there on the wall. Time passing. The world still turning.
It always will. I am insignificant.
I put my hand into the darkness again, into the shadows outside of my pool of light. I wave my fingers about. I an’t see them. They don’t exist for me. But if I flicked the light on, the main light above my head, would I see them? Would they still exist?
I stand up. I can just see the outline of the window across the room. The streetlight outside sneaking in around the drawn curtains.
The shadows would be deeper out there. Maybe, engulfed in them, I wouldn’t exist anymore. Maybe they would be deep and black enough to consume me properly. Not like the weak ones in here. Infected with the torment of this room.
I walk over to the window and pull the curtain back. The view is of the back garden. The streetlight casts an orange pool of light on the fence, and the end of the garden. Where the Toby’s kennel is. Where she’s sleeping right now. She pees on the floor if we keep her inside overnight.
I open the window and cold air hits me. It is refreshing, in a strange way. I feel it, but I don’t. My skin feels it. But I don’t. How can that be?
The shadows outside are just as I thought. Deep. Drawing me. Calling me. They will take me into their embrace. Hold me. Take away the nub pointlessness of my existence. I will be no more.
I swing my legs onto the sill, and sit, my feet dangling near the wall. It is cold. My breath mists the air. Strange, that. Little clouds coming from my body.
I learned the science, back in school. The teacher telling me pointless things, everything but why I feel this way. Do others feel this way Do they walk around all day feeling like they’re floating on an unstable ground? Like any moment they could be blown away, or fall through the floor, or just dissipate, become nothing but droplets of air?
I wanted to know. But I didn’t ask.
I don’t know why.
An owl flies past, lands on the tree in the garden. It’s eyes glow in the moonless night. How does it feel, I wonder? Does it feel?
I pull my feet beneath me, so that I am crouching on the narrow sill. Will I grow wings? If I launch myself off this? If I will it hard enough?
I spread my arms and imagine they have feathers, to carry me into the deepest darkness.
I stretch my legs, so that I am standing, just for a moment, balanced on the sill. Then I push off, jumping out in the embrace of te cold, of the dark. Of the shadows.
I am floating, truly, I have wings. I am flying.
Then, I am no more.
Prompt: Growing wings.