Matt Dew Drops

Glimmering waves spill against my sand-buried feet, a feeling of quiet woven into the silky sound of water dancing rhythmically from place to place. A brief breeze squeezes my arm in passing like a comforting friend and pulls my hair over my vision, so that the horizon, fainting in the dying light of the evening, disappears. And as sudden as the breeze, my mind, following the orders of my eyes, sees black.

Tonight’s fog saunters across the uneven ground like a butcher at the slaughterhouse before he pulls out his phone and rings death to attend their shared business. The crickets are his trumpets which jubilate his uninvited visit. His partner, the clouds above, knits a blanket under the starry sky. Instead of the linen cloth with light-stricken holes poked into it, all I see is the bumpy blanket of clouds that darkens like my skin in the sun, waiting to wreak havoc upon the few figures hurrying outside. The willows wave to the coughs behind me that have haunted this home since the first strong wind of the year.

I remember it well, the beginning of the plague. I sat outside, staring at the blooming meadow. Tulips began to fulfil their expectations, the pink complimenting the rich evergreens that lived next to the forest path. That evening, I pulled my scarf closer around my body. Sharper than usual, the wind swept across the meadow like a furious version of the gardener we used to have. I drew my company outside to see the strange spectacle with me. The tulip heads were now ripped off, strewn across the matt grass like the victims of a brutal massacre. Sudden like an ambush. Now, the wind turned to us, its invisible face full wickedness. With a whistling cry, it pierced our ears; it cut our cheeks; it shut our eyes, and -. And when the wind’s whistles turned into coughs, that was when the first rain fell.

Now, with the sunlight pushed into a distant memory, dreadful silence is my sole company. An annoying company that persists to follow my every step like an overgrown puppy. Still, the pointers of time creep in this petty pace that no hand can stop, no matter the strength, – believe me, I’ve tried my hardest.

The shine breaks into my room, prying my eyes open. The willows have calmed a bit, their arms flailing with exhaustion. The remnants of tulips have lessened, only singular petals are left. I muster the strength to claw and crawl into the biting air outside, frantic eyes searching for the whistles. Step after step, then I’m exposed. Vulnerable to the forces I fear will rip at my flesh. There’s a stumbling drum in my ears, beating the skin to produce a knocking sound. Then – it stops. My hands are wet. I look down to see dew drops. Not shining with the white light of the lonely sky, but matt, running along my fingertips below the lustre break of dawn.