Winter is Coming

In the pitch black of my lonely room, it is easy to forget reality and drift. The storm rages outside, the rain hammering the windows; an irregular, syncopated staccato that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. The mournful wail of the wind hisses and whistles through the cracks in my insufficient front door.

 Let me come in...

 Lying here, I absorb the sounds from the safety and warmth my covers provide. I fall into a semi-consciousness, the screeching of the wind almost forming words. I can see the long smokey tendrils slipping underneath the door and through the cracks at the hinges. Long melting fingertips reach out and evaporate in the relative warmth of my small flat.

 Help me.

 The words find me as the wind sighs, her lungs empty from the drawn out howls. I lie, staring unseeing at the ceiling, my senses sharpening as the imagined voice registers with my conscious self. I prop myself up on my elbows and strain to hear the eerie echo of the voice again.

 The rain continues to knock rudely on my window, the wind continues to whistle angrily at my front door. Darkness invades my soul and I give in, allowing myself to be consumed once more by the weight of my weariness.