I'm waiting bleary eyed for a beam. Just one. A little thing to show and hold and warm me now I'm cold, wet, alone. Down here it's dark, their voices knives and greedy fingers greasy with blood and fat and rot. They stain me and it won't wash off, I've scrubbed until I bleed and all I do is cry. Is the sun still there? I'm sure I saw it years ago - or did I dream it? was it all painted in watercolours in picture books with unicorns? - when things were bright and good and kind, before the clouds and grey.
I'm hugging bottle close and supping infant like from jagged teat of broken glass. All I taste is blood. Even that is gone, useless now or empty, what does it matter? I'm drowning in their sea and breathing comes difficult with each waking; tidal limbs surging over me, nails digging through my skin to leave infected sores. Emaciated, I stink and shiver with fever sweats.
My neck and shoulder creak from staring too long up, the grey mass of hair/cloud/flesh/membrane that covers us rising vertigo, my stomach - empty and acidic, bubbling like witch's cauldron - heaving in time. I pray for cracks. Something else, outside, not this monotony chattering teeth and clammy skin wrapped in gray half light, unrelenting. They're all striving for the mountain, king of the hill, I'm dragged along and under, too tired to fight. I'm waiting for a beam. Just one. Please.
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