Flood

Father sky sends drips and drops and deluge but the bridge remains steadfast. Angry currents rush beneath the cement foundation, hissing against the grassy bank, thwarted in an escape from the predestined path.
She stands in the middle of the treacherous swell, my sister, the icy froth to her thighs and slowly climbing. Furniture floats in her grasp, all colors, mint bookcase, cerulean armoir, red-rose chair. I wonder that she doesn't grip the edges of the rainbow suite, and I scream that time is of the essence. She can't hear me.
Or she doesn't want to.
The splash of tears swirls with cold rain on my cheek, my admonition carried away by the sprites on the wind and all is silent, silent, silent.

I open my eyes to the interior of a leasing cottage, flooded, the water deep enough to cover the tips of my shoes.
"Ready?" A voice behind me.
It is Alesha, and this is to be our new home, creeping brown stains now our nearest and dearest companion.
"You're sure about this?" Already the sour pungence of drowned carpet is threatening.
"We get to stay one night, just to try it out," Alesha prods.
I concede without protest, in a daze, only aware that one night is too long in a place like this while the winter air burns my rain-soaked skin.

The dark comes but my eyes open wider, straining for a way out. I try the door only to realize there is no escape, a lock on every outlet, no window or door left unchecked.
I glance at Alesha.
She sleeps, haphazardly lying on the dining room table, and I vaguely wonder why she didn't take the bed. Something urges me to let her rest, that she will be of more use to me if I do. But the blackness is becoming palpable, the steely fingers of panic pulling at the edge of the dark room.
"Daylight, daylight, I beseech thee, come quickly." The words fall from silent lips, vanishing snowflakes in the November chill of midnight.

And finally, sun bursts through the faded frilly curtains and Alesha bounds awake, energy popping from her like electricity.
"Let's go! I'm sold!"
Taking my hand she leads me to the next room, bare but for the plain desk and pre-PC era computer taking up most of the metal surface. Behind it stands the agent, gangly and pale with a shock of orange hair like the fires of ancient Rome.
No words, but she motions to the chairs in front of her without ceremony and I slowly sink to the cold pine seat. I hear my father's voice as he warns against this place. I wish I could see him so I would feel safe.

And then I woke up.