Persephone

The Pain

White gave way to green then to red as pain roared through him, searing each and every part of his body like some great fire that consumed him then faded, faded till it limited itself to his legs, to his arms, to his hands.

He was lying upon a bed of thick grass, a soft mattress that threatened to take him, to withdraw him from the pursuit. He tried to remember why he must go on, what awaited him? What was there beyond the pain that flooded and filled him? Why should he, even now, seek to raise himself from the ground?

He raised his head, only a touch, just enough to look at the world around him and ask himself again what the point of carrying on was.

He looked up and saw behind him a thin wooden leg. Next to it stood another leg and two more just behind. He continued to raise his eyes and saw the legs rise to a seat, and a seat give way to a back and he remembered his wife. He remembered her sitting on that chair, on that very chair. She had been there before they’d taken her away.

He pushed with all his might, all the strength he had left. Pushed and fought, raising himself first onto his hands and knees then onto just his knees.

Through the pain he saw the jungle before him: the thick grass, the wild trees, the vines and the bushes and undergrowth and thickets, all of it enveloping him.

He placed a hand on the chair at his side, her chair, and pushed once more to force himself, on shaky legs, to stand. He looked around and knew that she was here. That here, where the air was so fresh and cold and his skin burned like the pain that burned within him and he felt tired and weak, that here somewhere she survived.

One foot after the other he ventured forward into that abyss of green, that world of shadows and shade.