The Wind

DAY
The healing light streams in through an open shutter. Just one, not two, are open, but it is enough. I lie in bed, coughing on the outside and dying on the inside- but some cynics remind us that we are always dying, so I will state that I am dying faster than most at the moment. I despair; it feels as though nothing will ever cure me. Nothing but the light, the beams of golden Roman light, as simple as the white marble remains of today, as ornate as the stuccoed, frescoed décor of old Rome. Today, the healing light has chosen me, and it will not let me slip. Today, I am saved, for Rome embraces me.


NIGHT
The sinister breeze gushes through the open window. It is night, and I hear a low cackle emanating from outside. It is the Wind; she speaks to me in hushed, ominous whispers. She both warns and threatens; she is not the worst out there. I only continue to stare into the mirror: there is no fear there. My features are serene.