Lord of the Flies

The ground feels soft. My feet feel heavy. I cannot step away.
The earth begins to open. A patch of murky green grass becomes a patch of black mire.
The mire dissolves into nothingness; black nothingness.
My left foot in the black nothingness; right foot still on ground. I begin to lose my footing.
I feel its gravitational pull. It’s a terrifying pull. I don’t want to go down this time.
I’ve been here before.
It’s the dark cavity of depression, and I start sliding in. Both feet this time.
Sliding,
now falling.
Falling down the black hole.
All I see are mixed shades of gray and black. And the vertical lines of movement as I fall.
The depths of this hole are abysmal; I know I could go further. The sides are narrow; I am claustrophobic.
I gasp from breathing in the thick fog of emptiness.
I extend my arms to reach up. I need a rescue. I feel for the texture of a rope.
I need a lifeline.
But my hands are so slippery. I fear my hands are so slippery that if I were offered one, I wouldn’t be able to grab onto it.
Besides, does anyone even know I am here?
Falling,
falling,
now sounds. Flies. They buzz and hit my skin. They irritate. More of them, more of them. They gather around my hands.
I move my hands and notice they feel sticky. Gluey. Flypaper. Covered with flypaper.
I feel slight warmth in my hands, now slight pressure. Not a rope; a hand.
Now a gentle pull in my arms.  Slow upward movement.
Now tiny glows; luminous specks. And sounds. Not a buzz like before, but a calming whir.
Fireflies flickering. Emitting hope.
©2010, Amy Gusso