Channel Surfing

Flip,
to the wind flapping against
the face sticking out of the car window,
eyes grazing the skyline as
the sun goes down,
down,
down.

Flip,
to roaring crowds chanting your name,
the announcer handing you the trophy:
“And the award goes to...”

Flip,
to the trophy laying against the white carpet,
blood splattered against the walls.
“The red queen was here,”
you whisper into the sharp silence,
eyes staring up at the popcorned ceiling,
the lamps in the room going brighter,
brighter,
brighter.

Pause.
You peel open your eye
taking in the light
sneaking in from under your door,
muffled voices drawing close
until you see the shadow of familiar feet.
Fear tears at your throat as phantom hands
creep across your body.
The door knob turns, light spilling it,
and you see hi-

Flip,
to you running through thick mud
like hands clasping around your ankles
as you chase the flitting light
dancing from tree branches,
mocking your tear-stained face
while you sink lower into ground;
you hear laughter piercing the air
until you wake up.