▇▇ HE WAKES UP UNDER A WILLOW TREE.
his hands are tinted red. (perhaps it must've
been the cherries). he can't remember a single
thing. strange how cherries don't grow in this
time of year. strange how he can't seem to
remember anything. maybe it's the strawberries.
there was nothing that could remind of where
he was last. what he'd been doing. his only
memory behind this day was the sick smell of
something sour. rotting. dark clouds, sunless
mornings. the scorching heat that melted his
skin. (the summers here are eternal).
the sunlight flickers in and out on his skin,
blinding him and drenching his vision in a
white haze, which is, indubitably, a glimpse
of a heaven he will never have.
the leaves start to warp around him, the sun
disappears from the clouds and he sees his
own hands stained with blood. blood on his
shirt, blood on his skin. the ground dips under
his weight, dragging him into the ground,
eaten up by the dirt with someone whispering
something in his ear.
he wakes up under a willow tree.
▇▇ IN TOWN, different families disappear
for no reason with a wooden white cross on
their front doorstep. a remnant of their time.
the amount of crosses on the lawn differentiate
between how many families were alive.
he has counted six families gone. ten crosses
on dead grass. six doors with blood on them
and six houses with broken windows. gone.
then his neighbor gets one.
his neighbor was an old couple. the man said
that they've been alive for 83 years. they have
not aged a single day. they had buttery smiles
and the man's wife made cookies. he never
chose to eat one. she had moths under her skin
and the husband had corpses in their basement.
he shudders. they'll be gone in three days.
make sure you
aren't the next one.
▇▇ THE THINGS IN HIS MIRROR are not real.
they aren't. it is only in his imagination, a mere
glitch in reality. he just won't look behind him.
maybe that will get rid of it. maybe it will disappear
if he doesn't look behind him when he sees it. it
doesn't matter if it appears in his dreams. all that
matters is that they don't become real.
he knows what happens if he'll look at it for too
long. it doesn't matter if it gets closer to you, latches
onto your shoulders, it will tether to your soul like a
hellhound. but his hellhound was his shadow and
he knows it will eat him up alive.
he stares at his reflection in his bathroom mirror,
sees an ink covered hand coming up behind him
to rest upon his shoulder. long talons. he feels it.
it's there. it's only in his imagination, however.
tick tock, darling.