Prompt: https://siobhanmuir.com/thursthreads-tying-tales-together-week-540
In my dream, I’m on my way to work at a place that echoes only sadness from my past. The hallways are too narrow, the lighting dim. I shouldn’t be there – I’ve moved on, they’ve moved on – but as is so often true in dream logic, we’ve been drawn back together by some dark animating force.
I talk to people who I once would have called friends, but no longer. Their words are cordial, but the look in their eyes echoes the drumbeat in my mind. “You left us, remember. You’re lucky we’re taking you back at all.
“And you’ll never be one of us again. If you ever truly were.”
Even in my dreams, I don’t belong.
And then I’m outside, walking across the space that should be green, but instead of a place of life, sorrow is engraved in every blade of grass. This isn’t the brown of winter, it’s the rot of decay.
Tears come, but I can’t shed them. They take root in my stomach and bloom tendrils of agony throughout my body. I feel like my chest has been filled by some cruel ichor that stops my breathing, stops my thinking, stops my motion.
I awaken slowly, as if clawing my way out of the depths, my ascent hampered by the weight in my chest. The mask that helps me breathe overnight becomes a shackle, and I pull it from my face with disgust.
Even when I’m awake, I don’t belong.
Project Gemini 