Tangled Yarn

It happens slowly — the glimpse and you'll miss it whisper, the suggestion of disaster, a double look. Slowly, softly, it's hard to argue otherwise. It's not just a scratch from a ghost of a frame you never hung up. There's something wrong.

It's easy enough to ignore. That is, if you never go into the bedroom. It's easy to convince your eyelids to stay open as the sky darkens.

The day the rain comes, after a months long draught, there's a small moment when you feel, for the first time in years, a flash of hope. That is, before the splatter of droplets sound too close, before your uneven floorboards create barely-there puddles throughout your home, before you open the bedroom door for the first time in weeks.

The walls, they have truly come crumbling down. Really, there's nothing to do at this point. It's almost a relief, because well, this is so much worse than you ever imagined. When nightmares become reality, is there anything left to fear?

So, you climb into the rain-soaked bed. You nestle under the covers, lay your head down on a pillow engulfed in water. You drift off into sleep thinking silly thoughts, joking with yourself, wondering that if this is what people call a water bed, you've been missing out for years.

In the morning, well, it doesn't really matter what happens in the morning. The worst has come to pass. The small shadow, the flicker of disaster has become a flame and you've been waiting to be caught up in something other than your own head for your whole life.