It’s
almost time now. There’s a murmuring beneath your skin, soft and gentle,
soothing. You’re warm, so very warm, especially at the center. These days, you
are quite content to spend your days tucked in upon yourself, arms and legs
wrapped tightly. Skin aglow, smiling. The attendants seem satisfied with such
as well. They bother you far less now, most of the time. Sure, they still gaze
upon you with faces of concern, but they are different expressions now…. Before
they worried… now they keep their distance, particularly when you look to them.
Faintly, you register that this should bother you; it doesn’t. There are far more interesting things for you to look at anyway, and you needn’t travel far at all for such. There is the murmuring in your ears again, and it reassures you. Also, you are warm. Warm and glowing. You can see patterns in the flashing, the subtle, not so subtle way your skin lights, fades, lights, fades. Circles, teardrops laid over one another. With every breath you take, you feel warm, full. Glowing. The gilded patterns run their course with light, fading almost as quickly as they appear.
Since this cycle of patterns emerged, you have lost the desire to chase the sun. Perhaps it is for the best; you have grown rather swollen by now, and movement is difficult at times. Fortunately, you need not travel for warmth; the attendants have moved the braziers closer; they keep hot coals in them. It’s nice, and you coo at them to tell them so. They regard you only with strange looks.
Something is stirring inside you. It tickles, and that makes you smile. The haze that fills your vision has become a pleasant gold color; it makes everything seem more beautiful. You’ll be ready soon. Your dreams have been of dragonfire lately. Scales sliding over your skin, gouts of flame erupting from darkness. There is smoke in the air, and even when you wake, the scent lingers. You’ve stopped eating. Whatever they’ve fed you from the bowls does not satisfy; it never had. Now, however, they seem less apt to feed you. This is no concern of yours.
The man, continues his visits, perhaps more often than ever before. He looks more worried than all the others combined, and yet he still approaches you; he stares at you, but these days, he does not speak as often as he used to. Sometimes he brings the child. Most times he does not. When he does bring the child, it cries, and it will look at you, until it doesn’t, until it does again. It isn’t sure what to make of you, and you aren’t sure what to make of it. You reach to comfort it, but it shies away, and the man blocks you. It’s distressing, but it passes.
There is a voice in the dark, but you can’t understand the words. It sound frail, fragile. Other times, it is deep and rumbling. You sense that it should scare you, this voice, but it doesn’t no matter how loud it calls, no matter how it seems to shake your very being. You find yourself patient, listening. Content, almost. Even in the silence, there are tremors. Even with the gentle voice. Your body trembles just the tiniest bit, resonating with the words you cannot understand. You’re warm. So very warm. Everything seems lovely.
Yes; you’ll be ready soon.
Faintly, you register that this should bother you; it doesn’t. There are far more interesting things for you to look at anyway, and you needn’t travel far at all for such. There is the murmuring in your ears again, and it reassures you. Also, you are warm. Warm and glowing. You can see patterns in the flashing, the subtle, not so subtle way your skin lights, fades, lights, fades. Circles, teardrops laid over one another. With every breath you take, you feel warm, full. Glowing. The gilded patterns run their course with light, fading almost as quickly as they appear.
Since this cycle of patterns emerged, you have lost the desire to chase the sun. Perhaps it is for the best; you have grown rather swollen by now, and movement is difficult at times. Fortunately, you need not travel for warmth; the attendants have moved the braziers closer; they keep hot coals in them. It’s nice, and you coo at them to tell them so. They regard you only with strange looks.
Something is stirring inside you. It tickles, and that makes you smile. The haze that fills your vision has become a pleasant gold color; it makes everything seem more beautiful. You’ll be ready soon. Your dreams have been of dragonfire lately. Scales sliding over your skin, gouts of flame erupting from darkness. There is smoke in the air, and even when you wake, the scent lingers. You’ve stopped eating. Whatever they’ve fed you from the bowls does not satisfy; it never had. Now, however, they seem less apt to feed you. This is no concern of yours.
The man, continues his visits, perhaps more often than ever before. He looks more worried than all the others combined, and yet he still approaches you; he stares at you, but these days, he does not speak as often as he used to. Sometimes he brings the child. Most times he does not. When he does bring the child, it cries, and it will look at you, until it doesn’t, until it does again. It isn’t sure what to make of you, and you aren’t sure what to make of it. You reach to comfort it, but it shies away, and the man blocks you. It’s distressing, but it passes.
There is a voice in the dark, but you can’t understand the words. It sound frail, fragile. Other times, it is deep and rumbling. You sense that it should scare you, this voice, but it doesn’t no matter how loud it calls, no matter how it seems to shake your very being. You find yourself patient, listening. Content, almost. Even in the silence, there are tremors. Even with the gentle voice. Your body trembles just the tiniest bit, resonating with the words you cannot understand. You’re warm. So very warm. Everything seems lovely.
Yes; you’ll be ready soon.
No comments:
Post a Comment