Pieces Part 1

Dream

Gurgles.

When I woke up, I found myself in a swarm of Stygian garbs—a sea of blackness. I struggled to tell what inspired the somber palette—one woman to my right gripped her shawl like it was her lone overcoat in the Arctic; another cradled her purse in small motions. Left, right, left, some half-inches too. Her arms swayed like a sedated pendulum.

Huh. Now and again, my mind felt like it was wandering to the same rhythm if a pattern could be ascribed to my thoughts.

The noise around me began to intensify. I assessed the crowd, parsing the stony expressions and hand-cloaked whispers. My venture led to one sobbing triad, shaking far more vigorously than the rest. They were not clad in black clothes.

Why would you want to stand out in a place like this? I wasn't the type to judge others for their ability to conform. Still, the ambiance here certainly didn't lend to "sticking out." Even the youngest in the crowd had assumed jowls—people were stretched beyond their threshold, too lazy to emote. I'd seen this before. This was how grief tore you from the inside out.

But the three mourners were, offensively, still able to indulge their angst. It somehow hadn't stripped them of their strength to do anything else—talk, eat, sleep. They didn't stare like zombies into the portrait in front of them.

Where grief had unraveled them, the three slipped their pain through the slits of their eyelids. Cold, thick tears streamed down their cheeks.

I wondered how much their eyes stung.

Perplexed, if not awed, I asked, "What's wrong?"

But I was still waiting for someone to answer me.

Jaws remained clamped. Some faces reflected envy, betrayed through the cock of an eyebrow or a subtle clench. Contentment and sorrow warred on the others.

I parted my lips, wrought to inquire again.

But my endeavor was cut short.

Someone pointed at my side. I was about to trail their gaze when fatigue overcame me, blurring my vision.

I fell out of consciousness.