Way Home

She could see her breath, like grey ghosts trailing in the wind beside her, and wished she’d worn something more than her biker jacket. Her ankles stumbled and twisted, as she navigated clumsily between the cracks of the pavement.

She blinked, clumping eyelashes peeling back slowly in streaked blurs of orange and blue haze. She was in a maze of shutters and graffiti etched glass and the distant, low hum of traffic and music swallowed everything else entirely.

Time seemed to crack, disjointed fragments pieced together like an ill-fitted jigsaw. Moments flashed before her like the flickering of a candle, lit up one minute and then dark the next.

She fumbled with the layers of her dress, shifting it back into place. Laughter echoed through her ears, words spilled in chaotic forms and orders and a wall of eyes followed her.

She fell, her feet forgetting themselves momentarily, her hands meeting the dusty red bricks of the wall. She pushed upwards, the heels of her shoes slipping precariously, as one went in front of the other.

The faint calls got fainter. The dark alley got darker. She was nearly home.

It came quickly and almost in silence, disguised by the dazzle of sounds. It was strong, pushing downwards and groping in places it shouldn’t have been.

Her hands betrayed her, but she managed a scream. But it was bleared, lost amongst the rest.


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