The search party lights flicker away eastwards, trailing the barking dogs.
Silver spears of rain slant into my eyes; I taste them on my lips. Their rhythmic patter stirs the surrounding grasses, releasing the familiar aroma of arid ground succumbing to moisture. Burning up now, I shuck off my nightdress to complete the sensory overload.
By some bitter irony, I have become re-acquainted with lucidity in these final hours. No more bewildering sing-songs or deafening tea-trolleys; no more “and how are we today, Elizabeth?”
No more anything, if my luck holds out.
I hope they find me…
… just not yet.
Friday Fictioneers, under the leadership of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, advances into April. Yay! Thanks again, Rochelle.