Through Me (The Flood)

You're in a dream.

It's soft and lovely and warm, a beautiful summer day where the breeze is just cool enough to ensure sitting on the porch is comfortable. Orion is in the yard, digging around in the dirt, pulling up handfuls and throwing it as far as he can, trying to get as much as possible on Simon. There's a baby in your arms, but for reason, you can't look at them, or look down, or see them at all, but you know they're there. You know it's your baby, yours and Simon's.

You think he was probably right. That she's a girl. Perfect and healthy, fat cheeks and rolls just like her brother had when he was born.

The dream is lovely, but it's a dream, and you know. Something dark and full of dread is lingering on the edge, a storm trying to fight its way in, puncture the sunlight and drain it from where you sit with the baby in your arms.

You can only hold it off for so long. You're not strong enough.

"Si," you call, lower lip trembling, and he jerks up from his knees, brow furrowed, long strides delivering him onto the porch, back to you. A big hand cups your cheek, and his thumb rubs the bottom of your lip.

"What is it mama?"

"I don't know." Tears are running down your cheeks now and you're being swallowed by the despair, the pain and fear that's rolling in like thunder. "I don't... something is wrong." You gasp for air, and he goes to his knees, pulling your free hand into his, and cupping the baby's head with the other.

"It's alright honey. Everything is alright." You shake your head.

"It doesn't feel alright- it feels- there's something wrong Simon. I can feel it." Anxiety starts to cloud his vision, shifting his mood from confident and content to apprehensive and worried.

"What doesn't feel alright?" The thunder is closer, close enough it's booming in your ears and rattling the windows, practically shaking the house.

"I don't know I just... is everything okay?" Maybe he knows and he's not telling you, maybe there's something he's trying to protect you from. It wouldn't be the first time. He opens his mouth to speak, but then-

Orion starts to cry.

He's holding his arms out like he does when he wants to be picked up, sitting on the ground in the dirt, except now he's covered in bruises, cries morphing into screams. Your heart races as Simon turns away and runs down the steps, sprinting towards where your son is wailing.

Before he gets there, Orion is gone.

Gone like he was never there in the first place, gone like he's never even existed.

You try to stand, but you can't, legs numb, entire body too weak. Simon turns to you with a grief stricken face-

and then he too, is gone.

You scream. The baby in your arms mimics you, and you thrash, trying to get free, trying to outrun the storm, escape somehow.

There's a pause between thunderclaps, a moment where a streak of lightning lights up the entire sky in pale, ghostly white shadow, a moment where everything stands still. When it's over, you can finally look down at your arms, you can finally see her... but instead of finding your baby, you find a small, empty pink blanket.

You curl over, confused, devastated, heart beating four times a normal pace as the storm moves closer and closer, gets louder and louder.

Finally, you can move. Finally, you can stand, and you walk away from the porch and into the front yard, dropping to your knees where Orion's pile of dirt is.

You close your eyes.

And then there is only darkness.

Simon is reading.

You'd know his voice anywhere. The pitch, the tone, the cadence. The way he enunciates his vowels, the pattern of his inflection in questions. He's reading, to you, and you're in the dark. Eyes sealed shut.

It's Doctor Zhivago.

If you could open your eyes, you'd roll them, but you can't. They're too heavy somehow, weighed down by a million pounds of sand. Everything is beneath the crushing weight of something, a mountain on your chest, your legs, your arms. You're stuck again, unable to move. Barely able to breathe.

So you opt for the next best thing.

"That book is awful," you mean to say, but instead, it comes out as a serrated, raw mess. This voice is not your own. These words are not even words, but strung together mush.

Something falls to floor, something loud, and you involuntarily flinch. There are hands on your face, big palms you'd know anywhere. Simon's. You really have to open your eyes now so you can figure out what's going on, and it takes everything, everything you have to force them open, and even then you can barely crack them.

Simon makes a noise. It's awful. It's agony. The room is really bright, almost blinding, and you're so tired. So, so tired, you can't even keep your eyes open.

You're trying, you really are, but your efforts are in vein, and the last thing you see before you slip away again is Simon's face over yours-

Sobbing. Smiling.