She falls; into deep blue that should drown her but does not.
Instead, there lies her reflection, a mirror, illuminated by aqua strips all around.
Her hand brushes glass, she cuts her little finger.
A brume of red encircles the young girl’s form.
And she tries to fight it, the flow of the current.
And she pushes her legs, yearning to go up, up, up.
Feet as heavy as lead, she sinks.
In her dream, she is digested by the stomach of a whale, it smells of acid, people, decay.
When the girl wakes, she is in a box, in a room, all white, all pure.
In the middle of soaked kitchen tiles a ball bounces, holding all the stars in the universe.
With fascination, she reaches for the spherical object: Yet, she is crying.
It is such a wondrous sight, however, her tears still fall.
Drippity drop onto the floor. But why is she crying?
Why am I crying? she wonders.
She looks to her toes.
An array of colors greet her.
The girl owns no more nails, they have all been replaced by shades of the rainbow; shards of herself.
This does not frighten her. It is a natural cycle, the cycle of life, she thinks with a voice that is not hers. And then: Where did that voice come from?
She starts running, dragging her leg as if it were a paintbrush with wishes to reconstruct the room with her being, her soul.
It does not sting.
It does not hurt.
It is necessary pain.
The floor rumbles and collapses beneath her frail form.
She wakes again: To screams of loved ones.
To images she never wanted to see again.
Now, the box is black.