A Storm Coming

Insidious fingers reach inside, through the layers of flesh, seeking delicate filaments. Claws of heat and ice, tipped with needles, burrow and tunnel until they find their mark. They tease, light, gentle—oh so gentle—as they explore the innermost reaches of my soul. The fingers whisper of a storm coming, like a breeze that ruffles flower petals on a lazy, muggy afternoon while dark clouds swell on the horizon.

 

 

 

 

I brace myself for the storm. Cover the flowers, close the windows, and retreat to the deepest, darkest corner in search of shelter. I hide and wait for it to pass.
 
Will it spare me this time? Might the frenzy pass me by? When I emerge, will I find my world intact?
 
Not this time. The wind and whispers grow louder, into a howl of thunderous glee, a scream of fury. The tender exploration turns savage when the fingers find a rift in my defenses. Talons rip through tissue and slake their bloodlust. Like lightning striking a tree, the fingers seek the heart and set it afire, burning and charring until nothing remains but a blackened, wispy skeleton.
 
The storm rages, the beast ravages. Nothing could survive the tempest. Yet I must, I do. Until the fingers whisper again.





Image courtesy of prozac1 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net