Writing is …, it just is …
It would have to be the wooden chair under the tree.
That would be where she’d want to be found should the darkness take over, making it impossible for her to see. To continue looking at the house she loved in which they’d eventually find him, too.
They’d find her first and that was important. Why? Because she wanted them to see for her once her own vision had left her. See through her eyes if such was possible. Fear her fears. Dream her dreams. Nightmares they’d be rather once they’d found him.
What had she done that for, they’d wonder. Then they’d notice the likeness. Was he her twin? How come we never knew she had a twin, they’d whisper.
They’d remove his gag, untie his bondages. Ask his name and shudder at the hollow voice which would return the answer “Heather”.
But you can’t be, they’d say, you’re a man and she’s a woman. A woman who sits dead in her wooden chair under the old tree staring at this house sightlessly. Tell us who you really are.
“Heather, Heather, Heather,” he’d repeat over and over and over again and soon they would notice the musky smell that was his breath. As though it came from the depth of a tomb.
Sean woke up with a spastic outward jolt of his right arm which sent his mobile phone flying off the desk, “Oh no! I want to know what happens next. Why is it that this thing always rings before the dream progresses any further?”
(c) Ash N. Finn, 2013