I like to sleep.
Especially when I wanna escape something I don't want to do.
I fall hard on a marbled floor, smeared with old red, new red, aged red, and fresh red.
Some red even my own.
It covers the pure white and black tiles like a water spill from a pitcher.
I then realize I am bathing in a pool of blood.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The dripping of a liquid chills every bone left on my body. The dripping of the drip does not at all sound like the dripping of the water.
No.
The dripping of the drip is something too familiar to forget yet too foreign to remember.
I sometimes forget why I'm here in the first place.
Why the conflict even started.
Instead of crawling my way up to my feet, I only sink deeper into the pool of blood until its warm contents cover everything but my nose.
But when my eyes pry their way open, I find the source of the blood.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Bodies.
Big.
Medium.
Small.
Bodies.
Fat.
Average.
Skinny.
Bodies.
Elder.
Adult.
Child.
Bodies.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Bodies.
Dad.
Mom.
Brother.
Brother.
The bodies of our family.
I thrash in the pool of blood, reaching my hand out to grasp them.
I thrash and thrash and thrash and thrash, but the blood of my family, the same blood I own, holds me down.
I scream.
I shriek.
I howl like a stupid dog.
But I am held captive by the deep, warm waves of their blood.
"Let me go!" I shriek, my voice muffled by the blood's grasp. My voice forms bubbles that only pop quietly as they reach the surface. "Please! Let me help them!"
My heart throbs in pain.
"Please!" I beg. "Not again. I want to help this time."
.
.
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
SpiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
