It’s a curse, they say, how her vision strays. This bothers them more than her, even with all she sees, all they never will until too late.
At sixteen she lies on the operating table and with a prick of a needle falls into a well of twilight sleep. She floats there like her own dream.
She wakes to darkness, her eyes bandaged.
The bandages fall away.
Above her a nurse hovers, covering his arms tattoos of roses, of thorns.
No longer do her eyes wander. No longer does she catch things out of their corners.
Now those things escape.
Amy Allison is a writer living in California.