When The Fog Starts To Lift On Buried Memories
A dream that comes in fragments.
I’m lying here asleep. Where’s here?
Nothing for a long time, just a disembodied voice. Small sounds. Rustlings, creakings. Someone moving about.
Too soft for a floor. I’m lying in a bed. I don’t know what a floor is. Or a bed.
Shadows dance out beyond the reach of sight. Footsteps. People come and go.
Where am I? What happened?
A first stirring of awareness. Knowing I have eyes and that eyes can see. Trying the mechanism for opening them. It feels rusted with disuse. Through the bars of a cage, a hunched figure. A man, but …
Who was the woman? Am I looking in or looking out? Was she a bit part in a book I read?
Eyes close. The cage door shuts.
From a long, long way down, rocketing up. At first — relief. Release from limbo. Then a terrifying upward rush. Propelled as high as the clouds, spinning into nausea and dizziness, knowing a drop must follow, a dead weight, a crashing death far below. The world explodes. A huge wave breaks with a deafening roar, hurling spears of light that hit my senses.
Terror bursts out in a scream.
