As if from ashes I’d been buried beneath, I rise. Sluggish, bombarded, my body is damp to the touch within and around streams, smears, and sludge of tears and this white-gray, heavy powder; however, I am dried to cracks where wetness is not. I am weakly sat up. The others are not. I rise, feeling some sickening lucidity to will myself to live. The others do not.
My dominant side is the first to crack to life amidst the ash-snow and whitened mess of once black-brown hair of curls. I peer at it as it does, my arm sounding as what a glass doll would if it had life in it to move, the shards grinding together, flexing as if they were flesh tissue. On my forehead there is blood glowing red and splattered over my frontal lobe. All of it stains the dead peacefulness of the ashen, calm graves I lay betwixt, at the heart of, and I raise my artist, killer hand to touch the unharmed skin. It is dry—old