Blood.

It’s odd. It’s stretched out in a puddle on the white brick, but it looks like it’s floating. There’s the barest space, almost like a layer of sealant prevents the red from touching white. A cloud rolls by outside, and the puddle gleams in the moonlight.

My mother sits in the corner on a stool. She’s smiling at a man who’s sanding a nearby plank. His face comes into view as he turns and I realize it’s my father. They look happy.

The thought brings with it a sort of fog and I take in their smiles as the puddle spreads.

I watch for a while. It’s… warm.

The plank grows smoother with time and the smiles are equally soft. At one point I catch a glimpse of blond hair near the window. It’s lower to the ground, atop a face that’s young and foggy. A child, I think. My parents grin at the passing ghost, then the child is gone and they refocus on their work.

At one point I grow restless. I want to move closer, even twist to do so, but I’m stalled by a numbness coating my limbs and torso. I shiver at the cloudy feeling and pain echoes in my ribs. It’s dull and achy.

I should do something about that. Maybe. Probably.

But I don’t really want to. It’s kind of nice to just lie down. It’s sort of soft and floaty.

The silver speckled in my father’s hair sparkles and he twists the plank for inspection. He holds it to his eyes, checking the shape, and my mother says something as he grins. I can’t make out the words. I stretch to catch the tones.

Maybe if I...

I roll, flop really, onto my back, and I register with the turn that the puddle's not as big as it looked when I was closer. That’s probably good. Maybe. I’m not sure that I care.

My mother hands a cloth to my father. He runs it over the wood, smoothing the dull surface into a shine.

I reach out to them. My fingers curl and I see red. It’s caked in the creases of my palm. The edges are dried and cracked. Its appearance derails my thoughts and I focus on the blood.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

I should do something. Patch myself up maybe?

I consider my options.

The bag could be useful, but – no. I left it on top of the tower.

The cloak then. I could use it as a bandage.

I fumble at my neck, intent on detaching the garment, but it’s hard to grab the clasp when my fingers are phantom digits. It takes some maneuvering, more than it should, before the clip finally comes undone. I watch the color of the material filter back to black in a wave. I should probably be worried about that, because of the wolf, but the worry passes into the fog that lingers around my consciousness.

An experimental tug at the cloth proves fruitless. It’s trapped, like my arms were. I tug again and it doesn’t budge.

It’s annoying, really, and I momentarily wonder if I should give up, slip into the fog, and maybe watch the puddle a little more. The red has followed me on my escape across the floor and I find its persistence amusing.

My mother finds it funny too. She giggles, holds a hand to her mouth, and I can almost hear it this time.

I should do something about the blood though.

Should I roll again?

It’s another ungraceful flop, and the ache in my ribs turns into a stab, but it quickly fades into numbness, and with its departure my tugging pulls the cloak free.

Yes, now I can… hmm… wrap the wound.

I consider my movements so far and a solution comes to mind in the form of a passing memory. The concept looks feasible, so I awkwardly tuck the cloak longways under my arms and roll once, twice, before settling on my back again. The wrap is tight, nearly constricting my lungs. A job well done then. Plus, I probably look awesome. I'm like a... like a...

What was the word again?

Ah. A burrito.

I snuggle into my burrito with a sigh, my gaze flickering to my parents. They look a little hazy now. They’ve moved and now my father is on a bench beside my mother holding her hands. Silver rings glint on their fingers. The board is propped up against the wall, words etched into the surface.

The Unseen Friend

“The unseen friend?”

My voice is rough and strained— mangled. It sounds cool though. Coarse. I sound like I’ve been screaming my lungs out at a concert. A conc—

Ugh, wait...ah!

A series of images flickers behind my eyes. It’s— it’s a storm. It’s as if a storm of memories is battering the reservoir of my mind. It hurts, and I feel the flow building to eruption, ripping its way through the cracks snaking through my head, battling to get out, to flood, to break and then—

Then it stops.

The memories are pushed back, tucked neatly behind a door in my mind I haven’t seen before. I want to touch it.

But the fog rolls back over everything and I settle into the cushy softness without protest. It feels nice. Yeah. Maybe I’ll just lay here for a bit, take a nap. I deserve a nap.

I can’t see my parents anymore. There’s only white brick and sinking moonlight.

Mhmm... just for a minute.

“Just for a minute.”

My eyes slip closed at the sound of my strangled voice. The darkness reaches up to greet me. The moonlight flickers.

The blood spreads.