On the Pedestal

With the slightest movement, she will fall off the pedestal. With the slightest sound, she will let it know she is there.

Curiosity and terror sway her so palpably that she struggles to remain still. The ground sustaining her feet is invisible in the darkness. She resists the urge to take a step. There is no way of knowing whether there will be a bottom beneath her anywhere else. She hugs her arms tightly against her sides, avoiding the overwhelming desire to extend her hands into the abyss.

She hears with frightening intensity. Blood gusts through her veins, a rhythmic rushing, pushing up her prickling skin like the rapid gasps of her lungs. She nearly faints at an abrasive noise; it is only a stray lock of hair moving on her shoulder. She hopes to fall. She fears to fall.

There is moment of calm so contemplative the darkness itself seems to be thinking. Then a touch on her back. A jolt of fear makes her fingers icicles. Her cheeks hurt, gnawed by an instant inner frost.

Not a sharp touch, like a needle stabbing. Not a demanding touch, like a knock on a door. It is knowing and deliberate, pushing into her flesh almost gently.

She forgets that she cannot see. By impulse she turns to face it.