C is for Ceiling

I poured my cereal in the bowl. It clinked as it went in. I poured my milk in the bowl. It dripped as it went in. When I stopped pouring, it still dripped. I looked around. Nothing in the faucet. Nothing from the fridge. Nothing. Not until plaster drip drip dripped from the ceiling into my bowl. Then I looked up. 

The ceiling was melting. It drip drip dripped down. Like stalactites in a cavern. Like a dandelion blooming. Like hands reaching down from heaven. One touched me. Brushed by my face. Drip drip drip. The hand stroked me. Left itself on me. Another white hand touched me. And then another. And another. They reached inside my nose and my mouth and my eyes. They lifted me up. Drip drip drip. 

The liquid broke. I fell. Not far, only a little. It hurt. Not much, only a little. I ran upstairs. I heard the drip drip drips behind me as I ran. I felt the hands touch my clothes as I ran. I heard the dandelions spore. I went into my room. Closed the door. Drip drip drip outside. 

My room was dirty. Clothes everywhere. Moldy food on the floor. I should really clean. Later, I guess. I looked out the window. At the world. At all the people. There was a drip drip drip behind me. Plaster on the bed. I saw them. The seeds of a dandelion. The hands of god. The teeth of a cavern. They reached down. Tried to touch me. I got away. Left plaster on my clothes. 

I went out the window. Fell down onto the ground. It hurt. Badly. I limped away from the house. Ow. I made it to the park. I was safe. Open air. Nothing to grab me and pull me and swallow me and bloom me and chew me and make it bad. I was safe. 

A police officer touched me. He was worried. Wanted to help me, I think. He tried to lead me to the hospital. I’m not going back in a room. Not where there’s a ceiling. I resisted. I fought. He fought back, for a bit. Then he stopped. I scrambled away. Safe again. A woman screamed. Then a baby. Then a man. Then everyone. 

I looked up at the sky. 

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.