Chapter 3: All The Things We Don't Discuss
in which our erstwhile narrator discovers the internet
Welcome to (Re)wild Imagination, an exploration of how art can sustain hope & how ordinary people can help the environment through acts of citizen rewilding. You are reading the paid version, which includes a serialised gothic novel.
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I didn’t realise how much I relied on other people until I found myself so suddenly alone. The seclusion was deafening.
Christmas was a drab affair.
I was the king of time. It ran through my fingers like water. In the first days I remember being able to remember why I had left, but the memory faded, as though I had left a bright morning for the increasing darkness of a well. I forgot the whys and wherefores of everything until only the bare hint of them stained me.
In those first few days I clung to the security room that I had made my bedroom, migrating over to the kitchen only when I had to. I spent those first days in a makeshift bed, rigging a hammock up out of a collection of jumpers that had been folded neatly into a plastic bag by the front door.
I curled up in it and sweated and twitched there until the light that separated day from night receded again and again.
I was so afraid of the new sounds of St Catherine's, of there being somebody else there. I imagined monsters in the shadows of the rooms, and conspiracy theories, and all manner of absurd things.
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