It`s four thirty a.m. again. I am wide awake again. The room is silent. The air is still. The light of the moon flickers between dark clouds so grey and heavy that I can already hear the rain before the first drop manages to plummet.
The thunder crackles loudly again. I feel the sound again. The room is dripping. The air is damp. The wind whipping little droplets through the torn screen brings memories of my mother scolding my sibling and me to shut the window and lock it tight.
My room is dark again. I am under blankets again. The room is cold. The air is thick. The burning scent of muck outside my window is so strong that it penetrates the thin glass windows and chokes the little air I have in the tight pocket under my blankets.
The house is empty again. I am completely alone again. The room is barren. The air is full. Dust clots and clouds every hole and gap in such numbers that I cannot breathe without the little particles coating my tongue and I cannot move without forming a cloud dense enough to hide in.
The wind is whispering again. I remember the secretes again. The room is old. The air is new. I can still feel the glare of my younger brother locked on my back as I mess up his perfectly stacked stuffed animals so that he has to start all over again before he can go hang out with friends.
The car is coming again. I am now crying again. The room is alive. The air is dead. The front door swings open with such force that the walls shake before impact is even made and the loud sound consumes every room of the house with a threatening howl that even the flakes of dust cower away from.
Our belongings are gone again. I miss my family again. My heart has stopped. My brain keeps going. I can feel the cold grip of my mother`s arms around me and the hot tears spilling from my brother`s eyes dripping down my shoulder like the raindrops leaking from the ceiling and shattering on the floor that is far more unforgiving than I was.
They are here again. It is loud again. Their boots crash upon the floor. Their voices travel through the air. The scent of blood still hangs so heavy around them that it returns the shouts and cries to my head with such ferocity that everything blurs and dips to the images flashing through my memory and it crashes me back into my painfully reality.
They are tearing things apart again. I cannot move a muscle again. They lumber around. I am not defenseless. The scent of motor oil and alcohol choke the air as they have before while the new scent mixes and twists with it to bring tears searing my eyes, a burning in my throat, and a burst of pain from years ago smacking my face and gut.
They have found me again.
I will not breathe again, but neither will they.
