Flight School: Prey

Forgetting to Remember

His hair, the pale curtain, was on the floor as though someone had removed all of it from his head and thrown it to the ground.

How? He was not wearing a wig; this was not possible. His first instinct was to reach behind his neck to check if this was real but even then, he was stopped.

His mother took his hand in hers, caressing his head gently.

It's okay Vaughn. It's okay.

No it wasn't. It wasn't okay—Vaughn was not okay.

All he could do was look at his hair on the floor and cry for it was too much to bear.

The world was a knife; slicing through every bit of life.

*

The vulture returned with a jolt, barely escaping from the same nightmare that had plagued his unconscious for more than a year. Sweat (or were they tears?) clung to his face and the base of his neck in which he reached instinctively for.

There was nothing there. Despite the feeling of being strangled, there was nothing there.

He turned to his bedside table and groped for light. When it was on, he found the brush he had been looking for and ran it through his hair that was tangled and unkempt.

Once again, he could not remember anything from the dream. The only thing he could remember was fear.

A fear that strangled.

His feet touched the floor that felt like ice, and he made his way to the kitchen for something soothing—anything that was spicy.

___________________________

Dear Io,

Mama is worried. I feel that you are not eating your vegetables, but I can't scold you over a letter so you must scold yourself. Does the school have parent-teacher meetings like us? Our neighbour Gou has been asking about you, and Mama feels more worried. I think your school should have this meeting so we can visit you. Papa is out in the woods again. He is not at home during the weekends, but Mama will still cook your favorite boiled potatoes. Tell me if you want more sunflower seeds. Uncle Rick has sent an entire box for you. Eat your vegetables.

When are you coming home?

Love,

Mama

He checked the envelope. It was obvious that there was no packet of sunflower seeds in there, for the envelope itself was not big enough to contain one.

Io made a mental note to write back in the evening, for there was no time to do so now. He had come to comprehend that dull monotony of routine and its paced feet that swept his heart away. Things were going so fast that he had little time to consider the value in themselves; the purpose of his actions.