She figured it was nearly morning, but found herself abruptly corrected — the room was startlingly dark, as the windows welcomed no light. A deep, drawn out sigh from the foot of the bed announced that her beloved dog was also awake.
The woman felt as though she had already slept a night-and-a-half, as she stared at the ceiling, trying to catch her thoughts.
Wracking her brain, she could feel the cadence and inflections of a familiar nursery rhyme, one that had not crossed her ears in decades. She hummed the tune slowly at first, and crept through the same emotions she once felt, until the lyrics suddenly rushed back.
She realized that she was now around the same age of the dear neighborhood aunt that’d delicately sing to her and her friends; fables of children that sounded like themselves, and could have grown-up down the street.
It wasn’t until her twenties that she noticed how truly troubling the stories often were. Remembering the fate of those children from this particular tale, she grew restless, and horrified.
With her eyes adjusted to the darkness as much as they were going to, she could eventually make out the silhouette of her darling companion, who audibly licked her own nose, as if to say, “I’m still up.”
She pondered the names of those poor kids that went into the forest so long ago. She could almost see the same depictions imagined upon first hearing the story 70 years prior. She pictured the same young girl envisioning the missing children, then saw herself among them.
Mid-memory, her focus shifted. She recalled moments from her childhood, her teenage years, iconic pages of her life that filled the gap between then and now. She thought about her parents and friends, the places she’s lived, people she’s dated, jobs worked, concerts seen, laughter shared — and stopped at once, eyes fully open — Am I dying?
Three words that induced a cold sweat, as she cut away from the flashes of her life.
Was that a sign? Is something happening? Was I asleep just then?
Trying to shake the foreboding that chilled her mountainous goosebumps, she looked down the bed, Was Evie facing that way a moment ago?
The leafless trees could be heard swaying, as wind made them creak and cry; it was a dreadful sound that caused the bed to shrink, as the two inched closer together, seeking comfort.
There they lied — awake; hours away from the sun. Alone in the dark.
Like babes in the woods.
Note from the author:
Babes in the Wood (Traditional Folk Song)
Poor Babes in the Woods (by Jarvis Cocker)
Babes in the Wood (Wikipedia)