Sarah Allen

you’re in a wheat field. a man is sat on your left, flat and gangly, all knees and elbows with no meat to hold him together. you don’t know who he is, but he treats you like an old friend. 

“the sunset looks nice,” he says.

but there’s no sun. it hasn’t risen for a while now. you don’t know how long you’ve been here, and time is beginning to lose its hold on your understanding of this place. 

there’s no moon either, only something fiery and incomprehensible encroaching on the horizon, bubbling and frothing with the rage of murdered gods. the wheat erupts into flames as it lumbers onward. 

your hands shiver, terror raw as that of a cornered animal. the man notices, and he launches towards you, brimming with the ill-contained hunger of a hunting predator. wide white eyes stare at you– through you–, pressed close enough so the man’s nose bumps against your temple. his skin comes off in greasy flakes against your cheekbone.

your mother once told you to play along with creatures like this one. be boring enough, and they might just let you go. you should listen to her. 

look at the sky. don’t look at him. i don’t care what he does in your periphery, don’t look at him. nod, delicately voice your agreement– yes, the sunset is so, so beautiful. you’ve never seen anything like it–, and try to blame your trembling on the nighttime chill.