Fetter
Above, heaven hovers in flickering pulses of light.
Imogen ascends from her body in a nightly ritual, a recurring fever dream. Her breath carries her upwards, with every inhale she can feel herself rise. Her consciousness drifts as she fades in and out of sleep, reality blurs. She dreams of the separation of self and skin, where she cannot feel the imprint of her spine against the mattress, where she is no longer bound to her corporeal self. Hovering, she watches the earthly being, entangled in a cocoon of silken fabric, eyes closed, on her back. She watches her ribcage expand, the sunken collapse of her exhale. She watches the lamplight flicker, casting dancing shadows across the walls of her bedroom.
In her disembodied state, Imogen is ephemeral. She is the dust as it gathers, the radiator hum, the creaking floorboards, the stillness in the air. She is the shudder of the window pane, the whistling sound of the wind, the pale crescent moon beaming in through the curtains. Unrestrained by her body, she is everything.
She looks down at herself asleep, waiting for the transformation to unfold. She scans the length of her body below her, searching for signs of movement. The longing for metamorphosis consumes her. She knows it will not be long. This dream sequence has repeated itself for the entirety of Imogen’s life.
Genesis
1
Imogen’s body begins to twitch. Her muscles contract and release. Her eyelids flutter. She turns onto her side, coiling into smallness. Her arms wrap around her knees. She burrows her head into the softness of her thighs. Her bedsheets entangle around her, sticking to her skin and strangling her jerking movements. Her ribs distend. Her breath is frantic.
2
Her body contorts as she bends backwards. Her limbs extend, reaching. Her arms brush against the bed frame, her legs hang off the edge of the mattress. Guttural moans echo from deep inside her throat. In a swift, grasping motion, she casts the sheet onto the floor, shedding the chrysalis. She is naked. She raises herself to kneel at the foot of the bed. Her eyes are open, unblinking, unseeing. Her irises reflect the flickering light, the dusty moon.
3
Imogen claws at the hollow of her back. Her fingernails trace across her shoulder blades, penetrating the surface of her skin, cutting through her delicate flesh. Streaks of blood stream down the length of her spine. From the open wounds, a web of iridescent veins, a thin membrane appears. This translucent film consumes her, splitting her skin, scales contour her cheekbones, her wings extend.
4
Imogen is a light bug. Sun rays radiate from her abdomen, saturating her bedroom in blinding white. She is boundless, dancing from one end of the room to the other, untethered, unkept. She has swallowed the flickering light, it lives inside of her, she can feel its warmth. She is the creature of her desire. She fades into the astral, otherworldly plane.
Emergence
Imogen awakens. It is the middle of the night and everything around her has returned to darkness. She is lying on the hardwood floor, the sheets ripped from her mattress and strewn across her. Her body aches, she can feel the vertebrae of her spine pressing into the floorboards. Having re-entered herself, she is starved. Her skin is covered in a sweaty film; she has swallowed dust. Her eyes wander, peering into the darkness, searching for the lamplight glow. She cannot recall how long she had been asleep, but she remembers everything else.
Restless, she crawls back onto the bed, consumed by longing. Her hands grope through the dark, reaching for the milk that rests on her bedside table. She tilts her head back, inviting it in gulps. It drips down her neck, pooling in her collarbones, collecting in her hair. When she has emptied the glass of any last remaining liquid, she sets it on the floor beside her. Her eyes widen as her mind flits through the last fleeting moments of her dream. The weightlessness of her breath, the light that lived within her, the moment of stillness before the becoming.
Tormented by visions, she cannot sleep. The hours blur, the night drags on. She shifts from one end of the mattress to the other. The milk has made her sick; it had been sitting out for too long. Her stomach burns, she can feel it turning in on itself. She sits up, leaning over and sweeping the palm of her hand across the floorboards below, until she reaches the small plastic vial kept hidden beneath the bed frame.
Fetter
She slowly turns the lid, pouring the contents into her cupped hand. Her eyes strain in the dark, counting the capsules under her breath. She has fourteen left, she won’t need more than five. One by one, she places the pearls under her tongue, wincing as she swallows, feeling them drag down the back of her throat. She returns the rest, tucking the bottle beneath her pillow.
She closes her eyes, waiting for sleep to collect her. When it does not come, when she remains embodied, she wonders if the pills have expired, if the cure has lost its effect. She retrieves the vial from its resting place, pouring the remaining pills onto her bed. She hesitates, her gaze swaying towards the light. Desire overwhelms the trembling of her fingertips, the wavering of her movements. She sweeps them across the mattress, clutching them in her sweaty, feverish grasp. All at once, she swallows what remains.
Her breath slows. She finds the sheet where it rests on the floor and swaddles herself in it. She wraps her arms around her ribcage, cradling herself and resting her head back against the pillow. She curls, her knees tucked into her chest, assuming the shape she takes at the conception of all her dreams. She traces her fingers through her hair, pressing her thumbs into the back of her skull. From where she lies, she can see the lamplight glow, its subtle movements, its dancing shadows.
She closes her eyes again, the distance growing between each inhale and exhale. She hears her heart beating slowly, creeping up into her ear in heavy, erratic pulses. She feels herself sinking into the mattress, unmoving, at rest. When she tries to extend her limbs, to bend backwards, to continue the dream sequence, she can’t remember how to. She descends, bound within her body, surrendering to her dissolving breath.
Imogen slips in and out of consciousness, her eyes slightly open, her eyelids fluttering. Her vision blurs and refocuses, until all she can see is light.
