I live in a box with wormholes for windows
Weak light filters through. I count specks of dust to keep track of time. The cast of the sun means a real window, and a window means the world. There might be something out there still, through planks plucked and pierced and crude.
When they come, their flat feet cast sparkles into the air and I am lost in dusk and dawn. I wasn’t born here but placed, knocked in with heavy nails rust tipped and poor company. The feet mutter to each other but never to me, though I tap and knock and scrape. I try to use the place where my voice was but noises clog and fade and I am left with spelks and warm dots that drip onto my dusty floor to crust and cover. A rug formed of blood and tears.
On a silvery morning I hear a scrape and a fizz and a neighbour is peering through my window. Three tiny holes I whittled with a pointed spelk to form one crescent, a new sheen to warm my flesh. The slick form wriggles inside and blocks the glow. It leaves a sticky trail across the floor that catches a glitter of sunlight. I’ve never had guests before. It sets itself down on my blood rug and I greet it with a nod.
We muddle along as best we can, uncanny housemates, vying for space and the slim shaft of bright. One day I wake to find them gone then spy in the streaky dawning a ghost tucked in a corner, above the blood rug and out of sight of the wormhole window. I watch. It hums and heaves and I know that it’s in there.
Seven sunrises pass before I hear it again, piercing the soft shell to reach out towards the blush. Dusting itself clean I see it now, the stout slick body framed with broad scalloped edges and searching antennae. It lifts a needle thin leg to wipe its face then tucks translucent wings to wiggle swiftly up and out of the window. My window. My world. I hear the breath of it one last time as it sends sparkles into the air and realise that I am alone again.
By Sarah Davy
- You can find Sarah over on her website: www.sarahdavywrites.co.uk or on Twitter: @sarahdavywrites