Bottoms up
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Lacrymatory.
Every winter I had the same dream.
Dim morning, like a ghost in a white dress, entered our little room in the attic. My gaze wandered in a scattering twilight: a heavy door, boarded up with rusty nails and rotten boards, window sills strewn with dead insects, a vague landscape outside the window, hidden behind a veil of fog and snow, cracks on plastered walls…
The abode of our dreams, where we can’t find a way out. Time, shaky and smoky, turned into the evening and with the dying gray light, life was also fading. My sister was dying from the inside - she eluded me, I couldn’t catch the fragile moth of her soul.
But at the same time, her pale body tiredly moved around the room, woke up the dust sleeping on the floor, wrapped in a spiderweb, trembling on the window frames from drafts. She looked like an empty perfume bottle - dim glass without contents, but I still felt the phantom scent of withered flowers. It seemed to me that her soul spilling on the wooden floor with salty streams. I caught her tears, hoping one day to find a way to return them to her, to refill the faded eyes with life-giving moisture.But tiredness deprived me of strength … In humble despair, I could only observe how crystal beads break on the floor. At first they fell silently, but then I heard more and more clearly how the fragments fall into the thickening darkness … And I felt like they pierced under my skin. I shuddered in pain and … woke up.
Being afraid to touch my face wet with tears, I frantically groped for one of the bottles that I kept under my pillow, hid salty drops in it, because it thought to me that these tears were hers. And only this elixir can bring the sister back to life.
