Negative Zero

Lion of the Mist

The stairs face east.

In life, I often wonder how I've come to my current place. Tonight, however, I don't wonder how I've gotten to the carpeted stairs. It's a common place for my mind to relax, but I cannot calm myself. The bright lights, the warm atmosphere—it dulls me.

In my hysteria, I pull my knees closer and sit stone-like on the stairs. I cannot feel the house I am sitting in. There is the movement of other people around me. Their faces, their bodies, it's all a blur as they scoot on by. I can feel the heavy air turn over on my skin with each of their passes. It all exasperates me.

The stairs face an open doorway.

I haven't been breathing for what seems like months and for no clear reason. Being unable to breathe, I feel weighted down by my own body, locked in my own confinement. With the feeling of being trapped, I stare on through the open doorway. It invokes my curiosity—gives me energy. I can feel the lightest of cool wind stray in and lick my bare knee. 

The doorway opens into a sea of black.

There are more strands of wind, each silently tugging at me. Indeed, I want to go with them. With all of the strength left in me, I pick myself up. The chilled wind tugs harder as I inch closer over the cold linoleum to the open door. The door is opened to the one hundred eightieth degree, almost peeled off its hinges—impossible to close without losing myself to the black abyss. Lightly, but harder than before, the wind's tendrils pull on me. My toes reach the edge of the house while my fingers hold onto the oak door frame. 

The wind whispers "let go."

So I let go.

My feet do not feel any support underneath them nor do I feel gravity pulling me towards earth, yet I frantically splay my limbs. The weight of what held me to the carpeted stairs seems to be dissolving, making it easier for the void to consume me. The wind carries me with it, but I am not aware of where to. Over my shoulder, the doorway from which I emerged had already become a flake of light folding into the darkness. I can no longer discern the blackness from my closed eyelids.

Wind continues to flow around me like water around rocks in a stream. They are whispering all around me in many enough tongues, I cannot distinguish a single voice. In my hysteria, I squeeze my eyes shut because I can feel time slowing. My limbs are swinging at inches a minute until they are not swinging at all. I am frozen in vulnerability.

Water laps at my knees first.

The whispers halt.

Gravity rushes upon me.

My stone joints sit heavy in my body upon sandy bedrock. The light already stings through the thin skin of my eyelids, but I blink to look through the gray light anyway. With the sudden weight and weakness, I am prevented from moving out of my aching laying pose, so I strain my eyes to identify my surroundings. Carrying with it a dense mist, a body of water before me recoils and rebounds its thin edges from what looks to be the mouth of a shallow cave. Ever so calmly, ever so slightly it makes its way to my shoulder, engulfing my knees. The temperature in the wind matches that of the frigid black current, even so, that of my skin.

My breath does not exist.

I sense time pass, but the light does not change. My arms exert demanding force upon the sanded ground to pick the upper half of my body up out of the grim-intending water. I notice that I have lost the apparel I had been wearing through the bizarre expanse of blackness—instead to wear a loose-fitting gown of pure white. Upon sitting up, I can see a distant glow through the mist.

The glow sways as it grows in size. In fact, I can see now that it is not a light, but a lion pacing over the water. His eyes clearly emerge through the mist first, making contact with mine, never breaking. He continues through the mist until he is before me, looking down upon me. I can see him breathe, as his lungs are exhausting warmed air through his nostrils in a serene pattern. His air blends casually with the mist, whirling a waltz as graceful as love between soulmates.

I wince as he gently leans his forehead down against mine, as if he is trying to speak to me. I wait for the voice of the lion, but I never hear it. He seemingly understands what I had longed for. His facial fur radiates with a warmth I had so desperately needed. I close my eyes to finally have found it.

Within my chest I feel a familiar rhythm awakening.

From my core I begin to feel all there is to possibly feel, primarily the softness of the lion's face. My eyelids flicker open and I am caught gazing into the lion's golden eyes. He blinks once, then twice before I hook my arm over his strong neck. He lifts his posture to assist me onto his back. I am not strong enough to bring up the rest of my gown—the bottom is heavily soaked, but it floats atop the dark water so I leave it be.

In one smooth arc the lion strides away eastward from the shallow cave through the thick mist, the silk linen material of my dress, like a white shadow in the trail of his gait, wisps over the water behind us. In my dying hysteria, I bury my face into his golden mane, warming myself, strengthening myself, mollifying myself.

Each breath he breathes, each step he takes, each rise in temperature he grants me—I am one whisper closer to accepting what is to come and to become of me.