Ravin's Ramblings

She was about the size of a mouse. I knew what had happened immediately. For a several horror struck heartbeats I just stared at the wrongness of the situation. Then, in my mind, I thought she’s cold. She’s dying and she’s cold. This was wrong, of course. She was already dead. Weeks ago, the doctors told me when I went to the hospital, but it took my body time to give up hope. And in my mind I was alone in a dark empty room and the silent whisper of dark wings ripped her in baby form from my arms and I stood screaming her name over and over as the black winged angels carried her back up to heaven. I love you! I loved you! Tell her I love her! I scream after them, hating her dark escorts for stealing her away from me. All in my mind, of course. In my hands is a container in a box that is growing cold. And I want to hold on to it, and wrap my arms around it, careless of blood and tissue and gore. In my mind, I do this, arms and hands red with blood and staining my clothes as I cling to her. And then in my mind I’m alone again in the dark room with the raven tipped angels far, far above me and she is gone. Betrayer of hope, this body of mine, betrayer of miracles. Broken body. Flawed woman. Incomplete. Nonsense, I know. Still, I cannot seem to cry or scream or get mad. I want to. I need to. Everything is wrong and on its side.