They say a picture is worth a thousand words, we'll give you 500. Half a Picture.

The clouds boiled and frothed in the sky above, and Kahra ran on between the trees, expertly, avoiding twigs and dead leaves. An electrical storm was brewing, it was no more than a few minutes away now, but that was the least of her worries. They would be upon her sooner than the storm would, and their wrath would be far more narrowly distributed, her own personal tempest. Like beads of sweat, her mind began to glisten, softly, and were it not for years of training it would have been her end. But not now, not like this she thought, and willed herself to concentrate on getting to the Fold.  She willed herself not to look back, not to strain for sounds of their approach. Once out of the trees, she would lose her cover and must make it down the narrow path that would take her down to the water. There she would sink in, immerse herself, safe.

She felt them now, closer, and the cracks of her mind began to spark. The heat coursed through her, stinging her, scalding her veins. She was good, but not as good as they were and no mere girl could outbrave them. The air sizzled, and the silence began to wrap itself around the forest. Stop it! She admonished herself, and thought of her sisters, falling into their eyes, pure white, welcoming, reassuring. Less then a few paces away she could see the break in the tree line, her heart surged, and she called on every last ounce of concentration to dash out onto the precipice, and make her way down the face of the cliff.

It was a trail she knew well enough, and under normal circumstances she could do it with her eyes closed, so as to avoid the temptation of looking down. But now was not normal circumstances, she had stayed too long, it was on to her, it was already here with her and she could not escape. She would look down, and she must look down, down was where her fate lay waiting for her. And down she looked, and what she saw she could not deny, it was too beautiful: a swirling, raging abyss.

She sunk down to her knees, and her eyes rolled back in her head, revealing two deep brown orbs which expanded and contracted with every breath she took. Had her sisters been there they would have gasped and shook with fear and they too would have been lost. But they were not here, could not see their sister as she lost herself into the grasp of madness, falling faster and faster out of the recess of her mind and into a cold, harsh florescent room, where the air smelled like antiseptics, and a man with a white coat and black mustache stared deep into the face of a teen-age girl as he removed a needle from her arm.

He never knew how much he would want it. As a matter of fact, he never knew he could event want something so badly at all. After three long years stationed abroad, the very air he breathed on the flight back tasted to him like her Beef Stroganoff. And all the way back from the airport, as he marveled at how big and shiny everything was (how had he never noticed before how wide the highways were?) the only thing he could focus on was that smell; distinct, mouthwatering, perfection.

The cab driver saluted him, as did a few airport workers, and an earnest looking boy who could not have been more than ten or eleven, who brushed the blond bangs out of his eyes first, as if to prove, that he, sir, was a serious boy. He walked on, with a straight back, a head held high, and a hunger in his eyes which was most likely misinterpreted as impatience to get back to a wife, children, a life.

He made small talk with the cabbie who filled him in on the important news, like the closing down of the southbound exit for construction, and the grand-opening of “Laura’s Chicken Delight” down on Brookfield, where the Amazing Savings used to be. “We’ll be heading right by it, maybe we can take a peek at Laura’s delight, eh? ” The cabbie turned around and smiled like a weasel, and like the polite young man that he was, he smiled back obligingly. But all the while his mind could only think of that first taste. It was a simple dish, nothing fancy, but like all truly good things in life, that was all he needed.

The scenery outside his window blurred by, as he lost himself in a reverie. The honking of the horn, and a short stop brought him back to reality.

“Aw, common man, move out the way!” Up ahead, cars were lined up, parking on the sidewalk and wherever they could. “Must be that goddamned grand-opening. You’d think people had been starving to go all crazy over a few pieces of lousy chicken.”  They inched forward slowly, the cabbie honking ferociously at kids who spilled over the sidewalk onto the street.

He had waited three years, so a few more minutes really didn’t matter that much, and really how could he blame them? But he couldn’t swallow his disappointment, his impatience, it sat like a lump in his throat. He was so close. He exhaled long and slow, and tried to remind himself that things could be worse. Hell, things had been a whole lot worse not more than a few days ago. They would be better now ,though.

“You know what, I’m just gonna walk.  I’m not used to all this sitting around, anyway, I need to stretch my legs.”

“You sure? It’ll clear up right after we pass Brookfield?”

But the cabbie took one look at his face and knew it wasn’t worth the bother to argue. Pulling away from the curb, he thought, what a nice kid. Our country needs more good men like him, and less of these greeedy, greasy-fingered chicken slobs.

Immediately he knew he had made the right decision to walk the rest of the way back. The fresh spring air on his cheeks, the firm pavement beneath his feet, and the familiar strain of the weight from his pack on his arms and back felt good. He could already taste it, and the very streets seemed to brim over with flavor. Crossing the familiar street, he saw the red mail box, the Christmas lights that hadn’t been taken down since ’99, and this time he inhaled deeply knowing that smell was the real deal, and imagined it simmering on the stove top just through that window. Perfect timing, he thought, grateful, more deeply so than when he had got news he was going home. He closed his eyes and drank it in, knowing that this was it, and it could never get any better.

Later, Michelle from next door would say that she herself wouldn’t believe it if she hadn’t seen it with her own two eyes. And to think they just took off like that? While that poor boy, only just home from Iraq… Its that chicken place, you see, got everyone in town acting like maniacs. As the only witness it was very disappointing that she could not give any helpful details about the make of the car. But the image was one she will never forget. She had run to the window because of the screech of the brakes, you don’t hear a sound like that every day. At first she couldn’t quite make it out, but there was no mistaking it. A woman in a chicken suit standing in the middle of the road, staring down at something. And then like that, she was back into her car, and off. And only his poor, mangled body was left in the street, a pool of dark blood already spreading out from beneath him.

I dream of a tapping noise, like rain against closed shutters. For seven nights in a row this dream has visited me, and with each passing night, it resonates deeper and deeper within me, the ripples of it gliding over my consciousness, a tell tale sign of some movement far below.

At first, the dream vaguely puzzles me, evasive, tickling the back of my mind like the forgotten chord of a song I once knew by heart. Eventually though, the day washes over me so completely that it is not until the very moment before I slip off that precipice which divides wakefulness from sleep on the second night that it comes back to me. By the third and fourth night, however, I am tormenting myself, demanding answers to a question I do not know. Tap tap tap. I become distracted, irritable, and fatigue wraps itself around me, an uncomfortable second skin. Friends and family, concerned, try to intervene, recommending sedatives, a vacation, a lover. But it cannot be helped, I know, and it knows, that this is something we must face together. Just the two of us.

The fifth and sixth nights are easier on me, and the tapping no longer troubles me. On the contrary I find it soothing. By then, my dream had become so ingrained in me that I found myself walking in time to its rhythm. Tap tap tap. Every breath, every movement, every thought. Tap tap tap. My life has been spaced out in measures, each moment a movement along the bar it has set for me, while my personal pendulum swings deep within. Tap tap tap. I can hardly wait to go to sleep that night. And I am not disappointed.

Today is the eighth day. Today is the day I could not have known would be coming, but was inevitable nonetheless. Today is the last day of my life as it once was. I do not have any regrets though, I lived it the best way that I knew how. But the time has come, and I stand poised to embrace what must come. Outside, the twilight is singing softly and a whisper on the breeze tells me that the time is near. As I lay myself down in bed I can only wonder at the simplicity of it all. I take one last look around. The Poplars outside cast their shadows within, patterns forming and breaking, tracing the walls of the room haphazardly. I grow tired of following their manic art, and close my eyes. I hear it coming. Tap tap tap.

As the black engulfs me I feel it well up inside, spreading up, out, potent. I long to submerge myself in it, and as I sink deeper I can finally touch it. Cold, smooth. My enigma.

It is time to open the gates. You have been waiting long enough.