A lone blackbird sings.
The air is peaceful and the scent of summer pervades everything. Wind that makes no sound save for the rustle of branches heavy with leaves. Dusk on a day when the night will never properly set, the sky a deep blue calm with dawn not more than a few miles beyond the horizon.
Static. Scalpel. Jagged. Glass. Wire wrapped tight around flesh, taught, cutting, wire, flesh, pulled, slicing.
The dawn is never more than a few hours away. The night is not silent.
Cold feeling in the pit of your stomach. Cold feeling. Acid, bile, ulceration and fear. Fear you cannot name. Fear that claws and crawls like a spider up your spine and grasps you round the neck sinking it’s fangs right into the soft indentation you learnt sometime you don’t remember, from someone you don’t remember was called the nape.
Maybe you read the word in a book. A hardbook book, no dust cover, just a faded green fabric, embossed with burnished gold, full of the musty smell of illustration plates. Pen and ink and typesetting. An Edwardian child in a magical land.
The lone blackbird sings.
No comments:
Post a Comment