So here we are, my first Writing Wednesday. If you find any prompts you think I could use, feel free to link them in the comments.
I hear their snarls in
my dream, the weeping and gnashing of teeth. The scent of blood passes beneath
my nose, the sense of apprehension building, preparing to crash into me with
the force of a waterfall.
As the waterfall of
trepidation collided with me, I awoke.
I’ll tell you one thing, I wasn't in my bed, I wasn't even
in my home. Instead, the woods greeted me with their darkness, the musky scent
enveloping me in its welcoming embrace.
Then, that moment between sleep and wakefulness dissipated,
leaving me with the realisation that, not just was I in the woods, but the
Forbidden Forest, where they roamed. Reaching a hand to my face, the water on
my cheeks met my trembling fingers.
It was too late.
They said, if you only strayed so far into the forest that
you were still dry, you could turn back, you could be safe.
My feet were running beneath me before my mind even got
round the fact of my almost certain doom. They would come for me soon enough,
and there would be no escape; not for the hopeless wanderer.
I had told my mother months before that my habit of
sleepwalking would get me into trouble, that a lock on my door would be a
necessary precaution. But no, I would grow out of sleepwalking, and having a
lock on my door would only encourage me to hide myself away, probably
performing illegal acts or something like it.
Now look, mother, I don’t suppose I’ll live to grow out of
my habit, and this is a lot worse than any illegal act I could perform behind a
locked bedroom door, I can assure you.
I hear it now, the hiss of the Great White, the sound that
tells me to start saying my prayers.
I pray that mother isn't too hard on herself; it wasn't her fault really. No one could predict
that a little bit of sleepwalking would lead to my death.
It’s sniffing me out, searching for the scent of my blood. I
read in school that a Great White can smell you from five feet away, with the
smallest surface wound, even a papercut.
I pray that father is
proud of my achievements, even compared to my sister’s; I hope he is proud of
me.
I remember the reason I consigned myself to bed last night;
up late studying, I had fallen asleep on my textbook, the papercut I’d earned
from a slip of my hand wakening me. Looking to the offending hand, the small
cut glared back at me, the slim red line signalling my downfall.
I pray that Kelly
doesn’t think ill of me for not living up to the bar she set; she always was
the best at everything, and in these, my final moments, my envy is
non-existent.
I can see it now, the hulking Great White slinking through
the trees. Its body is bigger than the books say, that I can tell from the off.
Of course, the books are written with legends, tales told by those who have
ventured into the dry part of the woods. There are no survivors who have
ventured as far as I.
I pray that he knew,
even though I never told him. I pray that he could tell, I pray that he could
find someone to help him through my death.
It’s approaching me, and on top of its undeniably fishy
scent, I could smell my own fear.
I pray that it will be
peaceful, I whispered to myself, one hand reaching up to cross myself, I pray that there is no pain.
