Does anyone like this?
First draft of something that spilled out of me. What do you think?
by Cloudy
I turn my back to a man with a navy blue umbrella. It fades into the sky behind it, blue hour, the rain just light enough to consider putting it away but choosing against it, remembering the remainder of the walk. My umbrella a matte black. I hold it with two hands and think twice of the man I just turned my back to. Standing at a bus stop, at a passing glance just another face blurred into the scenery around me. I feel eyes on me, a sinister stare like a laser beam burning a hole into the back of my neck. I turn, ready for the navy blue umbrella to take up the focus of my view. But it was gone, and with it, the man. I feel a pull at my psyche, and everything around me blurs into the rain. The pitter patter of drops fade to static, and I’m stuck there, but only for a moment. A light breeze blows a strand of hair in front of my face, gently snapping me back to reality. I brush a raindrop off my forehead along with the strand of hair and turn back in the direction of home. I feel uneasy and do my best to brush it off as I walk the familiar uneven sidewalk pavement. A little voice in my head tells me to turn down a different street, to not go home, pleading with me in an attempt to convince me that I’m being followed. But I turn my head several times and search for laser eyes on me, a navy blue umbrella, but I don't find any. Grief can make the mind do odd things. Like make you believe you saw someone you didn’t. And that's what I tell the pleading voice in my head as I turn onto my street. It screams back at me, desperation clear and sharp in its “no, please don’t, you don't understand. You have to listen, please!” House key finds lock and turns gears effortlessly. Door glides open, the smell of me drifts over the threshold, and I feel comforted. One last glance over my shoulder and down the street as I search again for a navy blue umbrella. “Nothing,” I say out loud for the voice in my head and for myself. Just a quiet view of blue hour fading black, light rain misting in the air, greenery flourishing with pops of wildflowers growing strong. Late spring always brings a sort of magic around here. I shut the door behind me and lock it. My umbrella hangs up next to my jacket and above my boots. I put the kettle on for tea, ginger lemon. A warm cup and fresh pajamas are exactly what I need right now. As I pull pajamas out of the dresser drawer, I feel grief wash over me. Its presence is heavy, overwhelmingly so that I sit on the edge of the bed, hands on knees, fingers still grasping pajamas. With my eyes squeezed shut, I take deep, long, and mindful breaths. I feel as though I’m slowly beginning to spin when the kettle whistle brings me back. Another couple of deep breaths and a shake of my hands before I put the pajamas on. I pour my cup of tea and settle into the couch with a blanket and a book. I feel off, and a little weary, but I’ve been looking forward to reading all day. A couple chapters in and I begin to feel tired. I finish the chapter I’m on and decide it’s time for bed. I started having nightmares a couple months ago, understandably, so I started taking sleeping aids to help. They only work about half the time, but since that was better than before, I continued to take them. When I wake up the next morning, I realize I had been sweating in my sleep, a side effect of the nightmares, not sleeping aids. But I can’t recall any nightmares I had. Something within me still feels off, I can feel it even before I sit up. My feet touch the ground, and the voice in my head...