A Year and Four Months Later

For the first time she wakes up and doesn’t envision a mangled body, limp and lifeless beneath a bridge.

The arm around her in the hard bed is the ultimate comfort, she nuzzles into the smooth chest and closes her eyes.

No, nothing.

The crisp, sharp flashbacks are gone. Or rather, they still remain, will always remain, but they’re different. The familiar, frequent visions of a bridge, cordoned off by police tape and the sullen face of the moustached investigator passing her a book in which to haphazardly scribble her farewells, the starry night of December the Ninth where she was sat, absentmindedly reading a book, unaware of what was happening mere moments away from her by someone she used to care so much for.

It still remained, but those memories were no longer carnivorous roses, barbed and thorned, which plucked and pecked at her fingers, piercing her skin. Letting it slowly, but surely, seep out her blood, one drop at a time, rendering her continually fatigued and weak. Emotional but too frail to dare contemplate what was happening or whether it would ever stop. She didn’t believe it would ever stop. The visions would never leave her, of that she was sure.

She raised her hand up above her face. Her fingers weren’t swollen or sore. They were fine. She was fine.

For the first time, she felt like she could finally move forward with the man laid beside her.

This was a new feeling, and for the first time she awoke with the sunlight streaming through the curtains, and felt overjoyed to begin a new day.


Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

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