“My Dry World”

by Luna Glanville

Dust rests still in the air, the particles visible in the light shining through cracks of the boarded window. The silence is deafening, as it has been for years.

I look through the cracks of the rotting wooden boards, a palette of browns and grays meets my gaze. The sun doesn’t shine yellow anymore, only a harsh white similar to the fluorescent lights of a hospital. 

I gaze upon the landscape with almost nothing in sight. Acres upon acres of dying and dead trees fill my vision. They’re long past the point of no return. Sharp and flimsy branches are all that is left, animated only by the dusty wind that never stopped blowing. The world is dull, the dust caking the cracked and yellowing window does nothing to block the horrors of what my world had become. The only things left are the mountains, their tips sprinkled with bits of snow. The only beauty left in this world is miles upon miles away, utterly out of reach for someone like me. An attempt to reach them would just leave me dry and lifeless, indistinguishable from the trees that surround me. So I just sit and watch, a tear slowly falls down my cheek, the only bit of moisture left in the world. 

I stand up, my dry and calloused hands gripping against the chipping windowsill to help me. I have almost no strength left, the chipping house just as faded as my own will. This house was built many years ago out of wood, it would have rotted if there was any amount of wetness that could cultivate some microscopic life. There isn’t any moisture though, no joy left in the world. My lips are dry and cracked, scabbed over just like each and every wound on my body. I don’t get the pleasure of moisture, no blood can fall from me. 

I hold dirty tables and cabinets to keep myself up as I tread across the room, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. It feels like sandpaper. 

I make my way into the hall, my body aching from each and every step I take. I take each step slowly down the stairs, they creak with a horrible screech of pain, tormenting my very soul. The sounds torture me and the little empathy I have left. But finally it is back to silence as I touch the floor. 

Is it worse to hear those awful screams or to be in a world without sound? 

I’m not sure anymore; all my opinions have dissipated into the air, they float with the dust now. 

I look up from the floor and see my nemesis: the front door. I walk toward it as I do occasionally, tempted to open it, tempted to explore and to find those mountains and that sweet wet snow. I can imagine it now, the snow melting around me, granting me the cool wetness I desire. I snap out of my fantasy, realizing that my hand is on the white iron doorknob. I’m tempted to twist, to open the door and just try for once to reach that snowy peak. I stand there for what feels like hours, unmoving. I then look into the adjacent window, seeing the reality of the world. The unceasing wind, the endless forest of dead and spiky trees that call to me and wish for me to join their ranks. My hand trembles before I finally let go of the knob. I turn around and slowly walk back up to the stairs. Maybe tomorrow.