What if you were stuck between three worlds? Drifting from one to another. What if you didn’t know what was real? Which of the worlds was a dream, which reality. What if . . . someone was fightin...
You awake cold. Always cold. Confused. Where are you? How did you get here? You push yourself up off the bed, bring your knees underneath you. Every movement is difficult and brings pain. Slide first one foot onto the floor, then the other, steady yourself with your hands on the bed. The wood feels comparatively warm underneath your feet. You go into the bathroom, stumbling in a half-asleep stupor, and look in the mirror.
You are unaware that it is procedure. Every morning is the same. Wake up on your stomach, always your stomach. Lay in bed wondering for a few minutes. Get up. Look at yourself in the mirror. Reach into the cabinet. Pull out a wash cloth. Run it under warm water.
You hold it to your face, feel it start to burn, but your skin is still cold. The relief is only momentary. You strip to nothing, glance at the mirror before stepping into the shower. Your arms are burnt, but not by heat. You prod at it gently, wince in pain. The area is red but cold, colder than the rest, icy. Burnt by ice. A quick assessment shows that there are similar spots down the length of your body, why it hurt to move.
You step into the shower, turn the water on. It pours down over your head, shoulders, down your back. You turned it on too warm. Your skin tingles, burns, hurts, but you stay put, wait until you thaw. When you can move easily once more, you step out, dry off, get dressed. It's morning, but you have no appetite. You don't work today. You crawl back into bed, hope the dreams don't come again, wonder if you're already in a dream.
There are only three choices and you can't decide which is reality. One is this house, where you always awake confused, unaware of how you arrived. But soon memory comes back and you know it is your home between homes.
The second is a beautiful yet barren place. On land, snow covers the ground, the trees, anything that's there. And on the water are icebergs, just the tips. They twist and curl, shining radiantly in different shades of blue. You can't stay long.
The last is a wasteland. A forest that holds no life. The trees are no longer standing, broken off and charred. The animals have long since fled. The ground is covered in debris, wood scorched black. Ash sometimes drifts down from the skies, clinging to skin and clothes. Disgusting.
You thrash in your sleep and I feel you pulling away from me. I reach out to you, feel warmth radiating from your body. I can't follow. You're leaving me. You're going to Her.
I curl in on myself, drift between the two worlds I can reach. Soon, you will return. Soon, you will be mine again.