Bloviate

Janice lay on the tarpaulin. Red shirt, blue jeans. Chest heaving, she lay surrounded by splashes of colours clashing to assert their primacy. She’s staring into the ceiling, past the fluorescent lighting and at the holder supporting it. The chromed facets mirror the world in a thousand shards. A thousand shards to hold the world, hold her world in its entirety.

She finally relents to the light and closes her eyes. Seeing past truth is painful and a tear sluices down her cheek to alleviate the pain. Shallow breathing as she watches the playback of the week.

She needs release.

She screams. A long, pronounced scream. A scream so wild the crescendo folds back onto itself in a way sonics were never meant to. A scream to punctuate reprieve. A scream to throw grief in relief. A scream articulate and bloviate, an ornate oration of the past week.

A primal scream.