Hope

Sometimes it takes a little longer, but...
There he is. The writer who jumps in flawlessly, feels, writes along and no hte

18:00
All day I’ve been sleeping with Devil beside me—at least, I think so. The kitchen door is no longer locked, the neighbours have gone quiet, and after the police’s last raid, it’s just like it used to be. No one gives a damn about me. The last empty bottle lies next to me, and I can’t remember picking it up. I’m struggling to wake up, and my head is pounding like mad. It feels like a thousand and one voices are shouting over each other. I’m exhausted.

As I slowly crawl out from under the table, I see something written on the wall. Wasn’t it white just yesterday? It’s a huge pelican, and beneath it, scrawled in writing: "blue pig".
Blue pig? I think of that police slogan for a moment: the cap fits us all. Are there still people who believe that nonsense?

19:31
I’ve tried using the cheese axe, the nail file, the bread knife, and the steak knife to remove the iron band around my wrist. It’s suffocating, being reminded of this over and over. Everything’s broken. How is it that in films, everything can be picked effortlessly with something as small as a paperclip or a hairpin, while in reality, it’s nothing like that?

The kettle starts hissing. I drink a mug of boiled water. The last of the tea was finished long ago, and I still don’t dare go to the supermarket.

21:00
Time to get up, says a voice.

Did I fall asleep again? All I see are pelicans now. The asphalt road is covered, and from underwater, I saw a pelican float by on a rubber ring as if it were the most normal thing. The whole pool was deserted. What am I doing underwater? Did I drown? What if I surface and there’s no one to find me? What if that rotten pig is waiting for me again, or one of his mates?

I know you, I say.

She smiles and says, Have you been painting on the wall again? Wasn’t it freshly whitewashed? I know you too, and I’ve received a letter, and Mother Holle…

Mother Holle—where is she? I saw her with that deranged painter who doesn’t think twice about killing people for inspiration.

I know. I was there when the soup was served, and he’s struck again. You’d best stay away from the water. Be careful.

Before my eyes, she fades, and I wonder if I imagined it all. I blink. Devil purrs, nudges me, and wants to go outside.

Let’s go, I whisper, just a quick walk around the block. The shops are closed, and it’s dark enough now not to draw attention. The world is ours, but the only place I want to go is the water. If the ferryman’s there, I’ll pay with the coin from the bottle return machine and cross the river. Just like the woman and the child in the boat did.

How do you know that?

Startled, I look around. There’s no one there at all. I hesitate, wondering why I know things I shouldn’t. Is there any point posting the last bottle if the recipient’s already here? As we cross the street, someone’s lurking on the other side. I pretend not to notice. What I don’t see doesn’t exist. Ik keep repeating these words...what I don't see, doesn't exist. It's all just a dream, a nightmare but still a dream. It doesn't matter if I can't swim, the pool, the pelican, the water isn't real.

_{3.5.25
Prompt: see title - @freewritehouse
Picture: unsplash
This story is part of a series written with @almaguer}