Clara.
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Clara.
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Clara
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Clara
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For the first time, I hear the water pronounce my name.
Clara.
They call.
No more cries.
No more wails.
No more shouts.
No more screams.
It's not the first time they called me by my name.
But it's the first time I could actually hear them call instead of the water gurgling on their own words.
Clara, they beg.
Every joint in my body twitches at the sound of the water's cries, each limb wishing and wanting to feel its comfort. But watchful eyes burn themselves down on me, feeling her careful gaze examine every twitch and move I make. I promised I wouldn't touch the water.
And I intend to uphold that promise.
I swing myself around on the floor, my slouching back turning away from the water. I curl my knees and hug them deeper into my chest, face buried once more in the darkness of night, only the pale moon's face shining light on the shadows that envelop me.
I tap my foot on the ground.
One tap.
Two tap.
Three tap.
Four.
They tap, tap, tap away like the feet that once tapped on a stage, lights shining above her crown as her body moves in perfect unison with the beat.
One tap.
Two tap.
Three tap.
Four.
I wish I could stand up on stage once more.
But you can, she encourages, her silhouette leaning against the sill of the window.
You promised to learn.
I look back at her.
I promised to learn.
Maybe one day I can stand against the glare of the lights again.
But I wonder when that day will ever be.
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.
