"But we lucky few, we are permitted to pass go and collect our $200 of vouchers for slurpee heaven, where they sell only head-spin seasoned with MSG, heart-break sprinkled with six year old icing sugar and nightmares on a bed of toe jam, marinated in repression and denial, every night for the rest of our lives; like sand through the hourglass.
Permitted, by an unlikely Hollywood villain/victim to struggle on in our little trio, helping each other keep from throwing up the past.
Or so we thought.
One for all and (f)all to the floor.
I felt a funny pain in my knee as I fell, a twinging symptom of years of netball and falling down the stairs.
And a decidedly unfunny pain in my stomach and my head, as the fuzz of impact begins to engulf me.
Just before I let it, I realise three things.
One/Yi/Uno/Eins: I am on the floor, but twisted all funny, very unlike a bobcat pretzel.
Two/Ar/Dos/Zwei: I am one of many
Three/San/Tres/Drei: You are the most twisted, your beautiful face not sitting quite right. Turned toward me, it seems wrong, unsupported, with nothing behind it.
All in the same instant I wordlessly pray I am wrong and know that I am not, as I slip into God only knows where.
The Holding Of One's Breath
9 hours ago