Footsteps. A heart quickens. Hands carve through clotted darkness, are you there? Eyes strain against closed lids, no sight, no sound, I can't see you. Pulse is the ticking of the station clock, not long until departure. And the girl stretches up, upright, and keeps going. Hands crawl across ceilings, plaster gives way and cool night breathes across her face. Keep going, don't stop. Feet tangled in blankets, in earthly belonging, whilst she breathes clouds, can almost taste Heaven, wait for me.
The fall is expected, it's almost wanted, as if God is too much to bear. The fall is down, is smooth familiar pathways down to where she started. The fall is release, is relief, is bitter disappointment that fills her mouth and clogs her lungs. We wake and know that we have dreamed, but she dreams and waits to wake. Never shall a girl fly.
Body is pain, is heavy lead-lined bones fitted without pattern. An expert in stillness; energy is saved, counted, used to breathe. Ribs move only with great effort, but lungs are shallow and forgotten muscles are desperate for oxygen. Breathe in, again, no rest and only sleep brings quiet relief. She moves a finger, surprised, moves another. Marvels at this magic, this control, but it takes its toll and she lives knowing memory is a fleeting thing. Dreams take the place of days she is missing, have you seen them?
She feeds on a quiet but sure belief in the future, sleeps like one that has lost the past. She would accept a dance with death, just to know what it is to move again. But death does not call, she is lost from His list, and from the game of life. What will I be? she asks, but knows that only she can decide.
Inside her, in its lead-lined cage, in its still protection, beats a withered, black heart of guilt and the knowledge that to be is not a choice left to her. Weariness rolls over her, and she is flattened by it, pressed into the pages of our photo albums, our memory books. Long ago she played a game, and long ago she lost.
