exactly what the heroes do, but until you’re thrown into the story, you have no idea.
Enough. I trade the book for the glass and finish the contents. A little deep breathing and clearing of the mind. Starting with my toes and working my way up I force my body to unwind. By the time I reach my face, my lids already feel like ten pound weights and I let them drift down. My jaw descends, releasing a yawn before I knew it was building. A few more moments soaking and then off to bed.
Moisture laden air no longer carries the scent of lavender, but the sickly sweet tang of decay that toys with my gag reflex. Like a dead mouse the cat grew tired of and hid in some unknown region. Raising my arm, I bury my face in my elbow and breathe through my mouth.
Good gods, it stinks and it’s dark. Too dark for me to make out the details of my surroundings. Extreme low light is not a problem, but anything less than moonlight is a challenge.
The ground makes a horrid sucking sound as I take a step and my stomach heaves. Slick and slimy it oozes between my toes with each squelching step. I keep moving, fearful it will pull me under if I stay in one place too long. The way it’s crawling up my ankles, I’d swear it’s alive.
Yep, this stinking shit is alive. It’s making its way up my calves. Move faster? Yeah, there’s a thought. The mind and body are willing, but wallowing through creeping crud makes it a challenge. A heart–pounding, high–stepping, stomach–retching, stinking–to–high–heaven challenge.
By now, I’m up to my waist in compost. Struggling to keep my head above the slime and ooze, remembering to breathe through my mouth seems like an extravagance. Even though my clawing at the thick air doesn’t help—I’m not stupid, just panicked—I do it anyway.
Something about struggling in quicksand, making you sink faster tickles at the back of my brain. Reason and common sense get pushed out when in the middle of full blown panic. I start to wonder which is worse, drowning in muck, or my own vomit as I spit out a combination of the two.
Little Queen...
The gunk coating my ears muffles the voice, but I know it’s Einen.
Wake up. I’m dreaming. I must have fallen asleep.
Nothing is distinguishable, a hazy kaleidoscope of light and color. Herb–infused water laced with Merlot instead of decayed sludge replaces oxygen. Leaden limbs thrash and claw at the oppressive bonds determined to pull me under. The vinyl curtain bunches in my grasp, leverage lost as the fabric gives way covering my writhing body. A blinding flash of pain erupting as my head connects with porcelain.
That crack to the noggin clears a path through the panic. I’m in the tub, not a swampy marsh, or even a river, lake, or ocean—not like there are any oceans near Iowa—I refuse to go down like this. Drowning in my own tub with a cheap vinyl curtain as a shroud.
My curtain–tangled hand slides along the side, elbow cracking the bottom, wedging my arm between the tub and my body as I roll. The curtain rolls with me, freeing the other arm. Flinging that arm forward I manage to hook it over the side and pull myself upward. Hoisting myself over the edge of my watery prison, I land in a painful heap on the less than forgiving tile. Choking and heaving as oxygen–starved lungs purge themselves.
Eventually I gather enough strength to pull myself out of the spreading puddle of pink–tinged bile mingling with the contents of the toppled bottle. The shower curtain dangles from the final two and a half hooks floating across rose stained water. The wine glass didn’t stand a chance against my panicked thrashing. Various pieces of the bowl are scattered across the bottom. Still attached to the stem the base bobs at the foot of the tub. Evidently, wine isn’t the only thing staining the water.
Like that two year old who only notices the pain of a scraped knee when pointed out, I now feel the sting of a multitude of tiny slashes compounded by as
Enough. I trade the book for the glass and finish the contents. A little deep breathing and clearing of the mind. Starting with my toes and working my way up I force my body to unwind. By the time I reach my face, my lids already feel like ten pound weights and I let them drift down. My jaw descends, releasing a yawn before I knew it was building. A few more moments soaking and then off to bed.
Moisture laden air no longer carries the scent of lavender, but the sickly sweet tang of decay that toys with my gag reflex. Like a dead mouse the cat grew tired of and hid in some unknown region. Raising my arm, I bury my face in my elbow and breathe through my mouth.
Good gods, it stinks and it’s dark. Too dark for me to make out the details of my surroundings. Extreme low light is not a problem, but anything less than moonlight is a challenge.
The ground makes a horrid sucking sound as I take a step and my stomach heaves. Slick and slimy it oozes between my toes with each squelching step. I keep moving, fearful it will pull me under if I stay in one place too long. The way it’s crawling up my ankles, I’d swear it’s alive.
Yep, this stinking shit is alive. It’s making its way up my calves. Move faster? Yeah, there’s a thought. The mind and body are willing, but wallowing through creeping crud makes it a challenge. A heart–pounding, high–stepping, stomach–retching, stinking–to–high–heaven challenge.
By now, I’m up to my waist in compost. Struggling to keep my head above the slime and ooze, remembering to breathe through my mouth seems like an extravagance. Even though my clawing at the thick air doesn’t help—I’m not stupid, just panicked—I do it anyway.
Something about struggling in quicksand, making you sink faster tickles at the back of my brain. Reason and common sense get pushed out when in the middle of full blown panic. I start to wonder which is worse, drowning in muck, or my own vomit as I spit out a combination of the two.
Little Queen...
The gunk coating my ears muffles the voice, but I know it’s Einen.
Wake up. I’m dreaming. I must have fallen asleep.
Nothing is distinguishable, a hazy kaleidoscope of light and color. Herb–infused water laced with Merlot instead of decayed sludge replaces oxygen. Leaden limbs thrash and claw at the oppressive bonds determined to pull me under. The vinyl curtain bunches in my grasp, leverage lost as the fabric gives way covering my writhing body. A blinding flash of pain erupting as my head connects with porcelain.
That crack to the noggin clears a path through the panic. I’m in the tub, not a swampy marsh, or even a river, lake, or ocean—not like there are any oceans near Iowa—I refuse to go down like this. Drowning in my own tub with a cheap vinyl curtain as a shroud.
My curtain–tangled hand slides along the side, elbow cracking the bottom, wedging my arm between the tub and my body as I roll. The curtain rolls with me, freeing the other arm. Flinging that arm forward I manage to hook it over the side and pull myself upward. Hoisting myself over the edge of my watery prison, I land in a painful heap on the less than forgiving tile. Choking and heaving as oxygen–starved lungs purge themselves.
Eventually I gather enough strength to pull myself out of the spreading puddle of pink–tinged bile mingling with the contents of the toppled bottle. The shower curtain dangles from the final two and a half hooks floating across rose stained water. The wine glass didn’t stand a chance against my panicked thrashing. Various pieces of the bowl are scattered across the bottom. Still attached to the stem the base bobs at the foot of the tub. Evidently, wine isn’t the only thing staining the water.
Like that two year old who only notices the pain of a scraped knee when pointed out, I now feel the sting of a multitude of tiny slashes compounded by as
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