The Rushing of the Water.

Hayley's in too deep. Deeper than she ever wanted to be.
She's spiraling; arms outstretched with fingers splayed, desperately trying to reach out, for someone to hear her.

“Oliver,” the word escapes her lips, a single cry, “Oliver, please.”

Her hands scrabble at the cement walls; nails leaving bright white marks on the grey.
Hayley never wanted this. Never in a million years.

“Oliver, please.” She's shouting now, her voice echoing back to her, resonating in her brain. She is sick of her voice, she wants it to stop. “Oliver, get me out of here!”

Oliver doesn't reply though. Oliver doesn't know she exists.

- - -

when the bough breaks,
the cradle will fall,
and down will come Hayley,
memory and all.