Inklings 2020

passed, the hours grew colder. The fire eventually withered, and the night sky faded into darkness. I knew I should stay silent so as not to call attention to myself. I wrapped my arms around my legs and waited for the sun to rise again. As night fell, the butterfly flew off of me and the ladybug was replaced by crawling insects. I listened to the sound of a nearby stream for reassurance, but my mother did not come back. She never came back. I eventually found some people at a gas station whom I never should’ve met. I return to the present with the remembrance of mymother’s abandonment. I cannot shake it off. The reality that no one is coming to save me arises as a burning feeling in my gut. I worry for myself and for what the future holds. Will I make it out of here, out of this place that I don’t know? “Why am I here?” I ask fearfully, separating my lips which feel glued together. “You hate her for that night — for leaving you all alone,” the voices say. Amidst my sobs, I reply, “Yes.” “Just because she walked away doesn’t mean you should’ve followed after her, Sydney.” I can’t move. I can’t answer. “Your mother was not who you thought she was. She was part of something unimaginable, something a child like you could not understand.” In a moment, everything stops: the pain, the voices, the sloshing of the water all stop. “Is that where it ends?” a voice asks, but it is not the same voice as before. This voice belongs to a female, it is soft, and seems close. “Yes. That’s where it always ends,” a male voice says. My eyes open. A clock ticks close to me. I am in a building, in an office, 33