Her mind became as empty canvas. Wide strokes colored her with shades of the incomprehensible, beating her spirit further into submission. Mist surrounded her, thick enough to force her upright, yet unable—or unwilling—to ease the constant sense of falling. It grabbed her tight. It crushed her. Her bones crumbled under the same pressure that refused to let her fall apart. A sun shone in the distance, its radiance too much to bear for her feeble eyes. She only stared downward.
A crystal formed in front of her. Amethyst in its raw form, yet as clear as burnished gems cut by masters, made from purest material. It shattered into millions of pieces intent on assaulting her sight. The grains scraped against her eyes like sand, polishing her pupils to their idea of perfection. They cut away superfluous details of her world until a violet shape of a bird became its only tenant. The shape pointed a wing forward, urging her to look up.
She could now see the sun. It was him. She had always liked his smile. The violet brightness enveloped her as she felt the raven’s talons melting into her shoulders. One wing still pointed forward to show her the way. The other supported her head to keep her from straying.
The light disappeared. She panicked. She lost her purpose. Then the light was there again. For a moment, she felt hope once more. Then it vanished. But she knew it was there. He was still there. And showed himself again. Then gone again. She must reach him before he disappears for good.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
The raven’s whispers glanced against her as fine brushes tickling her ears, probing for the right angle to strike and imprint upon her cognizance.
The nothingness shattered around her into fragments of mirrors. The radiance from afar reflected off them as memories. Among them, one intruding impression demanded her attention. A welcome invader. The false but comforting memory of history that never happened. A brown-furred shape with four legs, the only certainty in a scene of blurred details.
She felt a push from behind. She had to go. She extended an arm toward the flickering lighthouse and felt a tug on her fingers. It pulled on and twisted her arm. And her arm kept bending and stretching and curling until woven into a rope, extending into the distance. But through the rope, she now felt herself safely anchored to the light as she fell forward, the unknown force now violently dragging her along.
She flew through the forest of memories as the shards of remembrance raced along her body. Their edges too sharp and fine to cause pain, she felt only the parting of skin and flesh. With each cut opened a door, letting seep in comforting thoughts that barely glued her broken body whole, keeping her from falling apart even as the oppressive pressure ceased.
She stopped. She fell. She had not the strength to support herself, and so lay helplessly on the ground. Broken, shattered, wounded. Ready to be molded anew. But she finally felt the warmth of the sun, its flickering light demanding her attention.