My Turn

It slithers in inflexible strokes through the powdery sand. You notice it out of the corner of your eye first. It flickers passed, like the light from a passing car. There one minute, gone the next. Your skin crawls of the thought of the artificial movement. Too fast and confused to be anything living, you decide.

You continue walking watchfully through the waving weeds of grass poking through the cold, evening sand. Holding onto the floor dependently knowing any minute the sand will give way to gravity and crumble, leaving the plant alone and vulnerable. The low evening sun usually leaves a warming auburn hue, but tonight its grey, cold and unwelcoming. You feel claustrophobic even though the land goes as far as the eye can see. There is an unmistakable trapped feeling you’ve never quite felt before. The cold wind biting on your exposed flesh during every slight breeze, even though it is a delicate summer evening. With each step, the knot in your stomach tightens, and wit each breath the lump in your throat climbs higher and higher to the surface as if preparing for a scream.

There is a rustle. Just behind you. You hear it instantly. But through both fear and stubbornness, you ignore it and continue to step away in the same direction you have always been going. There it is again. Without warning, like thunder before a storm. This time you stop. You pause. It’s quiet. Your breathing can’t help but panic and your breath becomes shorter and rasped.

You aren’t able to explain what you see. It’s nothing. It’s like nothing you should be fearing. But you are. There’s no breeze, or none that you can feel anymore. Your tongue is numb, and feet wont move. The lump in your throat is choking you now, as if there are two firm hands wrapped around your neck. Then you realize, there is. Squeezing the life right out of you. You struggle helplessly, trying to punch and kick all you can. The knot in your stomach can’t take it anymore and you feel the vomit pushing its way up your throat. But the hands restrict it. They keep it inside. The cool evening breeze now scratches at your dehydrated eyes that are too scared to close out of fear of never seeing again. You stare longingly into the possessor of the hands and look at a face so familiar it shouldn’t be bringing tears to your eyes right now, and yet it does. You’ve seen that face every time you’ve gone to the bathroom or walked past windows. It’s you.

As you lie there motionless on the floor unable to move, your last few breathes finally finding their way out before your eternal sleep, you look up at me and without saying a word, ask me why. All I can tell you is, I’m so sorry. I really am.

But it’s my turn now.