They told me that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, but I squinted through the dark and saw that it was only the Sun; mocking me, as they walked out in the elements, and I crawled back into bed. It’s warm and dark beneath the covers, like my mother’s womb, a barely remembered past. I do miss flowers, though, of all the things out there. He brings me food and water each day, crouching beside me to make sure I eat everything and stroking my cheek as I fall asleep. But he never brings me lavender, and sometimes, when I’m brave enough to open the windows behind closed blinds, I can smell them in the summer air. They waft into my room, dancing on the slightest breeze. I’m too scared to ask him to bring me some, though. I’m afraid that if he does, they’ll be brown and rotten, instead of the light mauve I remember from my childhood. So I fall asleep again, and he cries from the doorframe—and I can hear him.

3:24 pm  •  10 February 2012  •  42 notes