Lamb

He feels like he’s drowning, for lack of a less cliché metaphor, as he wakes from a fitful dream that he no longer remembers. It’s a quiet and difficult sensation. His bed feels like it’s behind him instead of below him. It does not do a good job at supporting him.

His hands are drooping. His knees are bending. His head is being lowered.

And there, he sees the spirit in front of him. It’s so very flimsy, made of white particles that shines in the quiet spears of moonlight that dodges in from the window.

The witching hour should be given another name, he thinks, a quick, fleeting thought as he watches that spirit. The witching hour sounds violent and uproarious, but these hours are simply still. Nobody speaks, not a thing moves, even the wind is silent. He opens his eyes to see the spirit but his ears thrum with pleasant nothingness.

The spirit creeps near. He feels like he’s drowning again, he has no choice but to stay in his bed, unmoving. He has no choice but to stare at the spirit.

It moves towards him; oh, it moves with such startling accuracy! Its feet drag over his stagnant limbs as it gives him a once-over and then dives into his mouth –

It suffocates him. Its body – the powder – the particles – the smoke of white – envelops his throat and he chokes on it. His saliva eases its uneasy descent. He stays there, eyes bulging, lungs rattling, hands clawing at his sheets but not actually moving, as the spirit downs his gullet.

And then it is inside. Once it is inside there is nothing to fear. There is only delight.

His limbs cease their struggling against invisible forces that keep him in place. The faint lines of his almost non-existent muscles die down. His brow clears and his eyes unfocus.

He lies there as he feels the spirit going deeper down into him, lighting him in lightness.

He stays there, arms spread, eyes staring blindly at the ceiling, and he plays the sacrificial lamb to its unholy ghost.

He cries out to it mentally – oh you ghost, shade, wandering phantom – you wraith, haunt, all-knowing wisp – you fairy, you patron, you saviour – and he dies by the light of the moon and lives again by the spirit.

He’ll be alright again by midday tomorrow, and he will invite the spirit again once his nerves light themselves with fire.

The ceiling above him glows like the distant water. He is too far away to resurface.