She crawled along the key and decided not to give in.
When the winds subsided they stabilized her with intravenous fluids, medication. They checked her blood, ran a CAT scan, an MRI. In her stupour, she relented.
I could feel the tension of resistance dissipate and she became like a boxing glove gone limp. The stuffing disappeared. She could no longer hit; the psychic force of her anger gone.
Her black dress lay on the floor, salty and ragged. She looked strangely newborn in her hospital green gown. Unlike herself.
Only her fingernails were glaring red.
Would it build again, the tempest?
Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
-oh, writing process- on Metaphor
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