I stare at the yellowed, cracked skull for longer than I should (mesmerized, almost); captivated by the black, bottomless sockets (comforting in their lack of emotion, lack of judgement), and far too enticed by the cold, numbing hand of death. I haven’t had to search for him long. Like an old friend, he has found me, welcomed me, and has reached with bony, long hands to grasp (caress) my broken mind. As if the pieces could be wrapped and patched together again, I feel his skeletal embrace. I imagine what it would be like for it to be all over—released, so easy, like the exhale of a breath—

But reality is quick to tether me to my wounds.

Too consumed in the walls I have put up against the world, I hadn’t noticed the stallion’s approach. His words stretch like cracks against my self-isolation, ringing and whipping and grabbing into the dull silence I had settled into (like the quietness of water as you sink to the bottom—numbing, noiseless, almost peaceful). But now I’m dragged to the surface—spitting and choking on the waves that writhe again and again (never ending) over my head.

My surprise is obvious. Every little muscle is abruptly taught, nostrils quivering, and my eyes wide as my head snaps gracelessly in the stranger’s direction. “Uhmm,” I stumble over my own tongue, trying to swallow against the sudden knot in my throat and hear over the thundering of my heartbeat in my ears. It’s almost impossible.

“I don’t know. Perhaps you can tell me, vreemdeling,” I trip awkwardly over the dialect, but the word is clear enough, despite the trembling beneath my tone. Somehow my heart has leapt into my throat. I shake my head once, blinking rapidly and trying not to stare at the winged stallion. If his language hadn’t given him away, then his appearance might have—bright and colorful like many Dorobians; I have seen and heard many things in my years among the desert sands. “Som-mige maats—kappy kan…lekker wees,” I try to steady my voice, but the foreign language is difficult nonetheless.

I eye him for a moment, trying to gauge how he will react—and wondering whether I’m more terrified or curious myself. Memories, unbidden, flutter to the forefront of my mind. Of similarly foreign words, rough tongues, and brazen requests—balmy nights spent in anything but satisfaction and kindness. “You’re far from home, no?” I continue quickly, more to distract myself than anything.


notes; vreemdeling : stranger
sommige maatskappy kan lekker wees : some company might be nice
“Speech.”