August did not disappoint

Hilda Hurtado

Its blade, merciless, severed the last root that held me.
The final thread that bound me to something —to anything— dissolved into air.
I wanted to unravel, to turn to dust, to spill myself into nothingness.

Suddenly, everything went black.
In a dream that seemed devised by a cruel god, flowers with sharp teeth devoured my entrails with obscene patience.
I woke in a white, cold room, wounded by lights.
But it was not the eternal light I longed for.
It was a hollow light, without warmth, without promise.

Voices everywhere, a cacophony of urgent tongues.
They wanted me to return.
I did not want to.
There was nothing to return to.
I am weary of so many Augusts.

I saw an endless corridor, lined with doors and curtains.
I recognised it: I had dreamt it as a child.
Then, I was chased by a white owl —monstrous, almost human.
Now, they were doctors.
I ran.
I wanted them to let me go.
And just as I was about to take my father’s hand, something struck my chest, dragging me backwards.

They brought me back against my will.
The truth: I do not want to be here.
I have not a single reason.

And when you wake, the world punishes you for daring to leave it.
The same hands that pulled you back are the ones that point and accuse.
I did not ask for help.
I do not care.
August has stolen everything from me.

I spent two days in hospital.
Alone.
As always.
And then they sent me home.
They know where it is.
I do not.