Flash fiction by Rebecca Williams
The Wind in the Leaves
Somewhere in that dreamtime state between awake and asleep, the shadow of a man’s hand appears on the wall opposite me. Adrenalin bursts through my blood, leaving me gasping, heart thudding like a trapped bird. But as I look the image blurs and fades, it’s just the wind in the leaves outside.
Lying back on the cool sheets, a sound grows on the edges of my consciousness. It’s my heartbeat, pounding and pulsing, filling the empty void of my head. It’s the first time I’ve heard it, the first time I’ve heard anything. I think it may be the most beautiful sound in the world.
Later, as doctors stand in a hexagon of concern in my room, I turn away to watch TV, see how the virus is tightening its grip on the world. All the while I hold my secret close, amazed at the static buzz and hum of the ceiling light filaments as they fracture the silence.
Outside for a breath of air, the rain spills its tears on my face and I take shelter under the branches of the tree that scared me. The wind blows the leaves again, the sound of them brushing together creates a gritty feeling that slip-slides inside my mind.
All the world’s noises skitter about inside me now, transmitting down my synapses in shudders and sparks, building and breaking me in their revelations. In a world that is silent for everyone else, I alone stand in the warm rain, ready to receive my auditory fireworks, the gift of sound.
Somewhere in that dreamtime state between awake and asleep, the shadow of a man’s hand appears on the wall opposite me. Adrenalin bursts through my blood, leaving me gasping, heart thudding like a trapped bird. But as I look the image blurs and fades, it’s just the wind in the leaves outside.
Lying back on the cool sheets, a sound grows on the edges of my consciousness. It’s my heartbeat, pounding and pulsing, filling the empty void of my head. It’s the first time I’ve heard it, the first time I’ve heard anything. I think it may be the most beautiful sound in the world.
Later, as doctors stand in a hexagon of concern in my room, I turn away to watch TV, see how the virus is tightening its grip on the world. All the while I hold my secret close, amazed at the static buzz and hum of the ceiling light filaments as they fracture the silence.
Outside for a breath of air, the rain spills its tears on my face and I take shelter under the branches of the tree that scared me. The wind blows the leaves again, the sound of them brushing together creates a gritty feeling that slip-slides inside my mind.
All the world’s noises skitter about inside me now, transmitting down my synapses in shudders and sparks, building and breaking me in their revelations. In a world that is silent for everyone else, I alone stand in the warm rain, ready to receive my auditory fireworks, the gift of sound.
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Rebecca Williams has always wanted to be a writer and completed the first draft of her novel in August 2017. She is killing time during second draft edits by dabbling in flash fiction. She has had work in The Same, Retreat West, Cabinet of Heed and Ellipsis Zine. You can find her on Twitter @stupidgirl45
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