The Words We Keep

In my dreams, I run

and

run

and

run.

My lungs can’t keep up.

I’m starving for air.

Stop, legs!

Stop running!

But they don’t.

They can’t.

Alice is running, too.

I reach out to her.

Our fingers touch

and she’s gone.

Vaporized into the night.

I’m alone.

running

and

running

and

running

with no finish line in sight.

—

I wake in my own bed.

Someone has moved me, wrapped a blanket over me, tucked me in tight.

Did Dad see my scars? Does he know?

Across the room, another shape, wrapped in sheets.

Alice.

She’s home.

I crawl out of my cocoon. Drag myself the one million miles between us.

“Alice,” I whisper. “Are you awake?”

No answer.

I pull back the sheets.

A waterfall of blood pours out.

Soaking her nightgown.

Splattering onto the carpet.

Flowing into the bathroom, staining the grout.

Staining me.

Her eyes flash open, darker red than the blood.

“Help me.”

I try to stop the bleeding.

But it’s coming from nowhere.

From everywhere.

“Help me.”

Alice reaches out.

I fall back.

“I tried,” I scream. “I tried!”

She can’t hear me.

Just keeps bleeding

and bleeding

and bleeding

until it fills the room.

Fills all the space.

And washes me away.