There is barely any light here, and never a breeze. Only the occasional thunder of laughter.
The tall doctor comes in the morning and stares at me for a moment, and then writes on a paper attached to a clipboard. He is an American. They all are. I feel small and dark, next to them.
I was part of a negotiation gone awry. The men weren't supposed to let me fall. They were supposed to value the life of my ten year old daughter more than their grievances.
I keep the light turned off, crying out loud when someone barges in and flips the switch. There is a coffee machine around the corner from my room and a huge jug of water that makes bubbling sounds. The nurses on night duty gather there, and sometimes one of them throws open my door with so much force, the light and sound from all of the world come flooding in, killing me.
There is never any wind here, though. Not like that night in the bad lands. Wind like that only happens at the top of the world, never down here, where I am. At the top of the world, only one thing can happen, no matter how it may seem. We can only die, even as we are told to live.
This post is an entry at Trifecta Writing Challenge.
The deal is that you have to write a piece using the third definition
of a given word in 33 -333 words. You should give it a try, too and
link up here. This week's word is thunder.