The golden light of morning shone through to paned window, and in front of you a fine breakfast. Your wife, a reporter for a local newspaper. You look upon your love, and she begins to speak, but her words are a mumble, almost underwater. You look into her eyes, the green eyes you loved so much, searching for her light, but... nothing. Then, like knives through a curtain, words.
"How long did you wait?"
"How long did you really feel that way about me?"
"How long did you pretend to miss me?"
"How long did you pretend to love me?"
You reel, your wife just sits there, beaming the same brilliant smile that she always had, looking up at you, eyes that devoured the light.
It comes back to you now. She disappeared last year, you remember the biting, haunting sorrow for her never-return, the waiting with your daughter. You jump to your feet, and suddenly all around you a silent steaming jungle. A lone gaunt man tells you of an expedition, what he did, and what you will do.
Frozen, you blink; gone is the man's face, and even worse, you hear his silent words echo in your mind:
"RETURN TO REST IN THE LOAMY GLOAM."
You scream, but no sound comes.
Suddenly, sound pours out of you like sick as you scream. You stand alone in a hallway, your hallway, ahead of you your own room. You go to it, when another you opens the door. They/you speaks to you in your own voice;
"Did you love the support when she was gone?"
"Did you love being the center of attention for once?"
"Did you love finally feeling important?"
"Did you, deep in your own self, love that she was gone?"
You recoil from them/yourself, back stepping from the phantom and falling into a cold, dark sea. In your panic, you swim and flail to shore. You only just barely make it, looking up to see an old woman peering out at you from a window.
As you take but a step, a flash and hum of white light, and... an office? But there are no typewriters, no telephones, no stack of paper; only a labyrinth of desks divided by short walls across the large space. You frantically search for pen and paper in this alien and familiar space, quickly finding both. Try as you might, you are only able to write but one phrase;
"RETURN TO REST IN THE LOAMY GLOAM."
You write this over, and over again until you hear someone behind begin to speak.
You turn to see who is there, but in your sight, you see nothing but the building for the Port Astor Gazette, rain pouring like tears from God. You pitifully call for help, and shove the rapidly disintegrating paper through the mail slot. They should help, this is where she... her... who? Who are you thinking of? You twist and turn, hands shaking as you desperately try to remember something. Something important.
You blink, now in a... nowhere. A yawning dark extends to the edges of perception. Suddenly, a gorgeous woman with radiant green eyes and rose red lips, glorious curly raven hair appears before you, speaking silently;
"RETURN TO REST IN THE LOAMY GLOAM."
Another lapse, another face; a tired & gaunt man in dirty clothes and sunken eyes, nails brown and red, silently speaks;
"RETURN TO REST IN THE LOAMY GLOAM."
Lastly, someone familiar stands before you with eyes very much like yours;
"RETURN TO REST IN THE LOAMY GLOAM."
Their face, now nothing.
Just like yours.
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