Fighting for Air

I know Despair and she knows me.
         We first met as I worked, in Hope, as the ground became harder and my tools became blunter.
         I worked. I said “this is hard.” My countrymen encouraged me “Try this,” “You're doing well,” “Keep going.” But they moved on ahead and I became slower.
         I panicked and then I saw her. She said “Come, rest.” She sat on a swirl of feathers. I joined her. It was soft, white. My tools lay down on the ground.
         The feathers settled around me and she smiled at me as I relaxed.
        “Stay with me, rest,” she said and I followed her, swimming a luxurious crawl through clouds of cashmere. As I swam I forgot my home country, my work, my countrymen, the expectations of me. If my countrymen looked for me they couldn't find me. I was between the gap in the slow, muffled lair of Despair. I reclined as she fed me and I rested.
        “Stay forever,” said Despair. But her voice betrayed her desire and I started fighting for air. Where am I? I looked up and saw I had dropped, metres and metres below. I could glimpse my country, and my countrymen. I was homesick for Hope and I started climbing back up.
        I popped up and was embraced by my countrymen. “Where have you been?”
        Looking at the feathers that still clung to me with the obstinacy of static. “Nowhere.” To an enemy you don't know, I thought. I'm sorry.
        I know Despair and she knows me.


* Christine Wells lives in London and in whatever book she has open at the moment.  She is a student social worker.