The Maker of Days
© Anna Reith. All rights reserved.
When I wake, there is this filthy smell in the air. It is everywhere. It seeps around me like fog: thick, enveloping, constricting. I cannot breathe in without it filling my lungs, cannot breathe out without tasting it on my tongue. For a moment, I panic, and with the panic comes nausea. My stomach rebels against the rankness, yet the nausea itself is familiar enough to jog my memory, and at once I begin to relax. Continue reading