Wading through the Murk and Mire
The first time Darcy wakes up, it lasts only a few seconds.
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Then she’s pulled back under.
The second time is longer. Long enough for her to recognize that she’s in a room, and she’s strapped down and her throat is dry. Then the panic sets in, and darkness swallows her whole.
She remembers sensations.
A cool hand on her forehead, a soft hand holding hers, bones fine and narrow.
The feeling of a warm damp towel on her face, a comb running through her hair.
She hears words but can’t understand them.
Shouting. Weeping. Humming.
The third time she wakes up, she's not sure if she's awake at all. There’s a still figure, draped in a black so black it sucks in all the light around it, nestled into the corner of the room. Darcy is terrified. She doesn’t want to look, but can’t peel her eyes away to save herself. It starts making a deep, keening noise that raises the hair on her arms, causes tears to swell and trickle out the corners of her eyes, fear- so much fear- seizes her chest-
It moves.
Darcy screams.
It swallows her whole.
Eyes as orange as the sun.