Everything fades to black, and before we know it, each one of us is being forced to join a group of people marching in the dark to the life’s final destination.
Most of us are marching with our heads pointing to the ground, regretting. Only a few are marching with their heads held high, looking into the night sky, where a lone soldier is standing, a sapphire moon that hovers above Earth, overshadowing its neighbors, the stars, with its mystifying blue hue. The hue reflects on those in fresh white gowns and the white blankets that wrap around the babies that don’t belong. As charming as the moon’s peculiar color is, its luminescence is not as bright as its familiar glow. However, its shape is in its most majestic form, big and sturdy, like a sentinel peering down upon us. It does not feel light years away as it normally does but gives the impression that we can take it in our hands, as if it decided to bless us with its presence. The night is darker than usual. Quieter than usual. Deader than usual.
The people that are wearing the white gowns or uniforms are ready. The guys in messy holey shirts and girls in shredded clothing did not anticipate to take this daunting passage. The unprepared ones are young in appearance. All with nasty scars. But there is something nearly all of us have in common; we are marching without shoes. Only those in beat-up clothes or uniforms have shoes. But we do not feel the coldness beneath our feet. The crunching of the snow beneath our feet. We cannot feel our feet. In fact, we cannot feel anything at all. We are a herd of emotionless beings, gathering more for our band of translucent people as we march towards the inevitable end of our lives’ journey.
Mirroring the night clouds is a dense blackish blue mist that masks the moon’s trusted neighbor, the Earth, where a mountain forest crawls its way towards the sky, using the moon as its guide. Silence consumes this mountain. There are no crickets chirping, no owls hooting, and no wolves howling. Only the faint sound of a small stream and the soft sounds of snow droplets falling off tree limbs echo in the distance. Our marching is soundless, but the nightmares’ marching is even quieter.
Our escorts are the creatures from nightmares, dark, faceless, soulless beings in black cloaks. They are riding on top of black mares and stallions. None of us dare to try and break free from the group, not because of the fear of the repercussions we might face when we reach our final destination, but because of some unknown force they have over us. We are not sure what they are, where they are taking us, or what will become of us. We can only follow. Follow them until the road splits at the peak of the mountain. The half on the right must go right and head up the sky bridge. The rest must go left and down into the mountain. All with babies in blankets are heading right.
The night is darker than usual. Quieter than usual. Deader than usual.
About the Author: Lindsay Hill was born, raised, and currently lives in east Texas. She graduated from the University of Texas at Dallas with her Bachelor of Arts in the Arts and Technology program. Her primary focus in the program was game design and game writing. After receiving her bachelor’s degree with Latin honor CumLaude, she decided to return to UTD to get her Masters of Fine Arts in the same program with the same focuses, which she is currently attending.