It’s been exactly three weeks since they locked me away. After my session with my therapist, I saw my husband, the rope finder, the callous stoic. I don’t even remember what he said, but I remember breaking something, I heard a crunch, and then screaming that faded into nothingness.

Then I felt the shadow take me from behind, tree trunk arms squeezing breath out, and snarls and growls of abhorrence. The final thing I felt was a pinch in my shoulder. Then the colors greyed out and the light shrank like a dying star.

I awoke in a cloudy room where noise hid beneath featherdown pillows and smelled like musky cardboard. And then…they came. One after another they came. Demons speaking sweetly, dark stirlings scattering across the floor, and hopes lingering to touch my heart, reaching to touch the ceiling of the Sistine.

And today, after all those days stuck in the swamp, stuck in a neverending sadness, I ask myself if I die or if I will be pulled out by the bit.

– M. R. –

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