The Deluge

The sink was dripping. Oliver was snoring. Cookie at the foot of the bed was snoring. On the baby monitor Isabella was breathing peacefully with baby snoring. The whole world was asleep except for me. I dreamt of something, something horrible, horrendous, and gone from my mind as soon as my eyelids opened. I swam for my nightmare. It drifted furthering away. Frustrated I extracted myself from the nest of blankets and headed for the bathroom.
I navigated the islands of clean laundry and baby toys. The tile was cool against my soles. The overhead light was a confirmation. My face was puffy and gray and I thought of waterlogged corpses. Roaring in my ears, the snores grew louder pressing against me. I reached for the tiny water glass and went to turn the faucet. The sink was bone dry. It wasn’t dripping.
I stilled. The dripping was behind me. The dripping was around me. Without looking I knew the ceiling had swollen with moisture, bloated and taut. The dripping increased. A floating stray pink sock brushed my ankle. I set down my glass. Wading back to bed, I was weighed down with slumber. I squished down on my mattress. The snores crashed over me. My bed lifted up as the water poured down. I sank into the deluge.

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