A short story about waiting, mental disorder, reality
Waiting and expectant, she waited for them. She had felt them coming for months, building up in her moments of reality; a whisper here, a caress here, a touch on her heart there. Once, in the middle of an exam, she felt her heart tighten and expand simultaneously, like a hand of ice clutched it and squeezed it until she wanted to cry with ecstasy; and she knew. She knew it was soon. For months, years, she waited in breathless anticipation. Walking around corners was done with the design of glimpsing something from the corner of her eye. The twilight hour between sleeping and awake was built on a bed of whispering words and voices, feathery fingers of blood that stroked her eyelids and told her the secrets she craved to be filled with. Her life was never full, always waiting, always held in suspended motion for them.