Fiona feels herself hurtling backwards, as if she's strapped into a
roller-coaster locked in reverse. Around her familiar words and
phrases whip and crack, biting and lashing at her skin. Recognisable
faces appear for the briefest of moments: her husband, Raven, Mary,
the Author. All flashing before her eyes before receding into the
darkness behind her. Every so often her journey slows for a second,
the world around her resolving into shadows of places she's visited.
One moment she's back at the Market, then it's the docks. Before she
can catch her breath she's back in the car, pursued by an over-sized
pen, then a child's doll shatters before her eyes. She's almost
overwhelmed by the sensations when they abruptly stop, her travels
seemingly done.
Around her curtains billow in a hazy breeze, soft cushions prop her
limp body, a new calm descends.
“Here, little one,” the deep voice says, and she feels a cup
touching her lips, cool liquid pouring into her mouth. “Drink,”
the voice says, “And be at peace.”
