Lilog224ever
I woke up at four a.m., chest hollow, trembling under a weight I didn't know I carried. My body shook before my mind could catch up. My mouth trembled. My hands shook. I couldn't speak.
My mom was there in my dream. I put my hand on her chest, and she started crying. I wasn't crying. Words stuck in my throat. My brother, still alive, golden eyes shining, halfway drunk, chaos in his stance. I told him, "Calm down. He's returning. You need to collect yourself." My words barely landed.
The world outside pressed in. Patterns I've known my whole life. My brother drinking alone, predictable but terrifying. My sister warning me, "Don't speak out loud," hands moving, trying to calm, trying to soothe. I trembled inside, tried to warn her, but my mouth refused.
Chaos pressed in. Gunshots of tension shaking my chest. I turned to my mom again, trying to tell her the truth I had seen. My mouth would not obey. Her tears poured before mine could start. My hands shook over her chest. I woke up.
I wanted to drive, beep my horn, signal clarity-but the horn didn't work. The tension lingered. The weight of what I had seen pressed heavy, unrelenting.
Four a.m.
The world quiet, sleeping, unaware,
but my heart wide awake, pounding, trembling, alert.
Some truths arrive before words exist. Some messages hit your bones before they can be spoken. Trembling truths at four a.m.-unfiltered, raw, heavy, undeniable.