I’ve got a bad feeling.
There’s a faceless woman in black leather trousers, with matching waist-length hair, stubbing out her cigarette and walking away into the tall grass brown grass. Her lingering smoke, mingling with the present smell of autumn bonfires in the distant air; unusual for this time of year.
The sun hits my eye, as it’s reflection in the pond sets into a puddle of honey. I guess it’s about 9pm. I think I’m holding a bear. I can hear things to my left, my ears won’t let me remember; and I can’t turn my head to find out what or who is causing the feeling
I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be.
I notice the scorched field that houses the pond is surrounded by tall trees. I look down and realise I’m 3, and wearing my favourite rosebud print dress with white leather, t-bar shoes. A will comes from somewhere that I want to be like the leather trousers lady, when I’m older. Cool, mysterious, unbothered. Then I notice the way the barren ground slopes and falls away into the pond, sloppily, and a sense of death looms over me, like I expect to see a body bobbing at the surface.
But I don’t.
The pond is still and shimmering in the fading light. And I’m left in a loop of impending doom that never comes, knowing it’s going to be a long night.
