C4 antho - Chamber Four

Helping Hands ~221~
Betsy angled her chin upward, smelled the wine on
Paul’s breath as he came in close and spoke softly in her ear.
His skin smelled of soap. He said everything she expected.
It’s okay. There’s nothing to worry about. You did all you
could. You’re a good person. Those people need the guiding
light.
They never got around to eating that night. Instead they
sat on the couch in the living room, finished two bottles of
red wine. They talked until two in the morning. By the time
they went to sleep, Betsy’s eyes were puffy, swollen and red.
As they climbed the stairs, she felt nauseous. Only the wine,
she thought. Paul held her around the waist, supporting her.
Her legs were rubbery and she had to hold onto the handrail.
In the morning I’ll feel better.
* * * *
That night, insects filled her dreams. Every kind of insect.
Gnats. Mosquitoes. Dragonflies. Praying Mantises. They
were the size of cars. They swooped down on her, emerged
from black skies, flapped their leathery wings.
They had eyes like silver domes. She saw herself reflected
in their vision. She saw hundreds of versions of herself,
small, distorted. Her face bent into new angles.
She covered her face with her arms, screamed “No no no
no no” as she ran. She was running in the desert, she knew it
was the Sahara. Her feet were bare, the sand lunar-gray,
cold, the sky an endless black void. The insects droned above
her, beyond her vision. She felt their menace in her blood.
In the distance she saw the IRC tent bathed in moonlight,
recognized the red crosses on the entrance flaps. And
then she was there, pulling back the flaps. There was silence
now. The insects were gone. She took a step inside the tent.