The Lost Sacrifice

My thoughts slowly form. My heart beats steadily, nothing abnormal in the cadence. I attempt to survey my body, but it doesn't seem worth the effort. So I wait, in no rush.

This vaguely seems familiar, but focusing on that thought is too daunting. So I return back to waiting.

My eyes open and I take in the ceiling above me. It is light brown with little parallel lines running throughout. Rushes. The ceiling is made of long blades of grass lashed and woven together to make a solid barrier between me and the sky.

I sit up and note that my body overall holds no aches or pains. I look down at myself and find that I'm wearing white. The material is loose and flowy, like a negligée, starting from straps that hang from my shoulders and ending a little above my knees. The bodice is slightly fitted, but still loose. I've seen this before. It doesn't matter.

I latch my eyes onto my toes and wiggle them, watching as they respond exactly how I expect them to. I flex my calves and point my toes toward the floor. Take a deep breath and watch my chest inflate. Push it out, watch it deflate. Shrug my shoulders. Bend and straighten my elbows. Wiggle my fingers. Everything works. I have no pain. It all seems normal.

Nothing is right.

The walls are clay. A shade darker than the roof. The room is round, instead of square. My little bed sits in the middle of it. A hole serving as a window disrupts the wall on my right, allowing light to filter in. The doorway is much the same; an area where clay wall is absent. A cloth covers the opening. It hangs down to the dirt floor. It doesn't rustle or sway, but creates it's own form of wall. It seems solid in its stillness.

A tug within my chest has me standing. I walk to the door and push the fabric to the side.

A light blue sky with pillowy clouds fills the majority of my vision. The ground is flat in all directions, my view of the landscape unimpeded by hills, mountains, or buildings.

I follow the pull in my chest. It's a compulsion, a necessity, just something that must be done. My feet carry me through the knee high grass. A slight breeze ruffles my loose black hair out to my left. My dress waves in the gentle current.

The ground doesn't hurt my feet. In fact, if I focus too much, I don't feel my feet at all. So I don't focus. I just follow the insistent instinct. I answer the call behind my breastbone.

I walk. I walk in the warm sun and the swaying grass. I walk with my body on autopilot. I walk and see the pretty blue sky and hear soothing sounds of normality. I walk in one direction, heading somewhere I cannot see or hear, but needing to get there.

I walk and the sky never changes. Always day. I walk and the breeze never falters. Always from the right.

I walk until a little round hut appears in my path.

I knew this was going to be here. It is out of place. A clay hut doesn't belong on the plains of the prairie, but it is here. Its quaint and has an odd charm.

I pull back the curtain and see my little bed just where I left it. The urge to get somewhere, to find something, thumps behind my sternum, but I walk to the bed.

I lay down, following a routine I don't remember but am unable to break. My body rests on the soft surface and I know this isn't a new experience. As my eyes close and my mind slides to slumber, the feeling in my chest cavity intensifies. Slowly, steadily, my conscience is pulled into sleep, even as the pain in my heart threatens to split my soul in two.

No, not two. Three.

**

I rise from sleep, slowly becoming aware of myself. My heart beats steadily. I wait until my eyes are ready to open.