Then in the metaphoric whirlpool, we found ourselves in a tumble. Our arms were not really ours anymore and my woollen cap was on your shoulder. We kicked and pushed and bit. But we held on.

You then walked away, parting the little catastrophe across the centre. At the bottom of the world, after all the water was drained, I sat cross legged, drawing little pictures with a stick. The mud was brown but also red. You returned a while later, and I assumed things were better. You held out your hands for me to see. Claws, you said, not smiling. You have claws, you told me. I ran my fingers on those marks on your forearm; scars from angry wounds. They are beautiful and beastly at the same time. You pushed my hand away. Your fingertips were cold.

They were my fault, I figured; the wounds, the anger. While you stood nearby, I hung my head low because I was too scared to talk. When I looked up, you were gone. There were imprints of your slippers walked away from me in the mud; a perfect pattern. In the midst of this I realized that the whirlpool was gone.

The rains came, and the pictures in the mud were washed away. I picked myself up and tried to follow your path. The footprints were gone, but my memory prodded me with sharp jabs in my back. When I found you, there were no words.

I tried to hold your hand, and this time you let me.