The Wind

She felt the gushing wind coming through the window.
It wasn't yet then when she figured just how lost she was.
Then she felt what could only be described as a push. She fell.
And it was dark. Everywhere.
"Pitch dark", she thought, as she touched the floor - was it the ceiling?
She realised she couldn't quite feel whatever marks were on the floor.
She didn't feel the lines between the tiles, nor the little cratters on them - a result of years of walking around and pushing furniture, realining, renovating, rebreathing the air as a different air, so vividly feeling life flowing through her veins every time she breathed.
The floor was perfectly plane.
Perfectly plane.
Oddly plane.
Was it the ceiling after all?
She couldn't tell.
So dark it almost felt liquid. 
Up and down, right and left, all the points in compass compressed into the same pointless direction: into the nothingness.
She got up - down, left, right -, and started walking aimlessly, trying to remember the room she was in, but she found nothing of the study she once was, looking for a book on the shelves.
She walked in what she thought was a straight line through the darkness, never really knowing where she was, asking herself where she could be.
"Hey!", she cried, "Someone there?"
Or she thought she did, for she didn't hear any sound coming through her throat.
Indeed, now that she thought about that, she couldn't even feel it at all.
"Someone, please! Please! Please help!", again, no sound.
"Please!"
"Please!"
"Please..."
Her pleas for help went unheard, what some would compare to a tree falling in the woods with no one there to listen to its fall: does it make a sound?
It didn't, not for her. She couldn't hear a thing.
She ran.
Ran, ran, ran, but she couldn't help but feel like sinking.
She stooped down to find the once-plane floor completely wet.
Before she noticed, she had sank all the way to the waist.
She freaked out.
She screamed, screamed, screamed, the wind rushing so powerfully, coming from all directions to inside her.
She sank.


She couldn't breath.
She wasn't breathing.
The air was not coming in. The air was not coming out.
She couldn't breath.


She remembered climbing the ladder.
Reaching out for the book up high.
The window was open.
The ladder was tilted.
The wind came.
She fell.


A single tombstone, left out in the darkness, the only thing in kilometres away.
The only thing she knew.
"In loving memory of our child".
The wind came once again.
Lights, chimes, oblivion.
She was dead.