Drugged: a strange little story

Veiled in lace, slightly there yet mostly not, mostly not. Dive deep and marvel at a bejewelled surface, that sapphire sea in Sicily. Up on my elbows, try to be useful, think of a word or phrase, a tune. Creative engine left behind, just heavy legs and an aimless walk. A few steps, that’s it, a lap of the bed, cut an apple in quarters and crunch it in sunlight. ‘Relax and accept that you’re still very fragile’, mum’s words that make me free to lie dormant. Quiescent, a good word. The scent of jasmine at dawn. Twitching fingers with sparkling tips, create a few words or notes but not yet. I wake, when was the drop to sleep? Is it evening or midnight, did we have breakfast, Ren? Central nervous system, the Brothers Grimm, ‘everything beautiful is golden and strewn with pearls’. My favourite storybooks as a kid, those musty-paged hardbacks with squishy blue spines. Ruby reds and emerald greens, perfect shoes made by elves. The golden ball, how I held it in my dreams, so light yet made of the purest gold. My garden of flowers next to the bed, yellow roses, frothy whites and lilacs, happy little lights, gifts of love. Strong stems of life, gently stretching. A party beneath blows bubbles of beats, rhythmic thumping to accompany my pills. Words spin webs and I cling steadfastly, dewdrops of silver trickling down. There was once a daughter blessed with jewels falling from her lips as she spoke. The classic youngest daughter of three, I bet the ugly stepsisters were more fun. I remember why I wanted to write today, about the number 13 and its guidance in my life. A Pagan favourite, a Christian ill-wisher. A powerful symbol. Yet I dive again, the veil entices me, a deep sapphire sea blessed with jewels.