Meadowlark Prairie Vita brevis

Voices singing, voices wailing, voices unified in smothering silence. 

He is torn between this world and the next. Walking the edge. Roaring winds, water crashing, smell of grass, tell-tale tremors, rock crashes against a rock. Dust. "No, no, no..." he whispers in a barely audible protest, unable to move, run away, scream. There he is. Burried alive. Air, air, air.

They come again. Rows and rows. Furs of agouti, furs of black, fur of orange. There she is, there she stands. Empty sockets, where her eyes should have been. Smelling of earth and decay. Her breath is ice cold as the winter day. She sits, she watches. She waits. You are not real, you do not exist. Her lips peel back from rows of yellowing teeth and rotting gums, she grins tauntingly.

He recoils in disgust. No escape. He watches from the distance. She attacks. Others come. They howl and yip, they tear him apart strip by strip, sliver by sliver. Their hunger insatiable, they do not stop even, when there is nothing left. It hurts so much. World loses colour. It cracks around the edges. It shatters. He is thrown in the void. He screams. 

It starts with a warm glow and smell. Somebody caresses him tenderly. Murmurs words in a tongue he does not understand. You won't die. I am here. Whether it is her or is it him thinking the thought goes straight to his heart. An anchor in a world of chaos. I will try. He says, he thinks, he does not know the difference anymore. It does not matter. 

Warmth finds it way in his fragile body. He opens his eyes and blinks in the world of white. He attempts to move, but has no control of his limbs. He manages to turn his head, he looks up at the white next to him. She is warm. She is alive. An angel. He buries his muzzle in the tresses of the silky white fur and sighs, before fading out into nothingness again.