DARKNESS 11
The room I am in, with its dark patterned walls, holds no familiarity. Upon a bed in the centre, my dream-self writhes. From the way she twists and turns beneath her thin cotton covering, her face contorting, she must be in some kind of agony. I have watched for only seconds, yet the depth of her apparent discomfort leads me to believe she has lain there for hours—maybe days—as though trapped from within.
Her eyes open. Brightness seeps through the unadorned window, lessened only by the branches of a tree, which filters the sun and creates striated patterns across her body. She blinks and, although it appears to take great effort, her hand lifts to cover her face. Her other hand, at her side, clenches and unclenches. Her feet flex—back, forth, back, forth—at the ankles, befor
