All around me, shadows rise from the floor as I run. They lengthen, stretch, become fingers reaching for me. Baba’s ringed fingers, Dragan’s scarred knuckles, Sasha’s tattooed palms. I run away from all of them.
The stairs spiral up into darkness like a serpent’s coiled spine. At the top, the cellar door yawns. Moonlight pours through its throat.
I fly up the stairs. My hand finds the cellar door. Or at least, it dreams it does.
The wood is solid beneath my palm. Or maybe it’s mist.
It’s chaos outside. Thunder unzips the sky. Rain comes from beneath me, pouring up from the ground and into the sky.
The village, a smear in the distance, writhes and takes shape. Becomes Jasmine at fifteen, crying in her wedding dress. Becomes Sasha, scarred throat bared to heaven. Becomes me, split open
