Ronnie Anaman

Micheal was not himself. He lay on the bed of a stranger, staring up at a ceiling he had seen for the first time just the day before. He'd been disoriented and sick to his stomach all night, catching sleep only in fitful, anxious, nightmare-fueled jags. His life had been blown apart; his sanity was slipping away. His very surrounding, the foreign room, the alien bed, were unforgiving reminders of this terrifying new life. Fear sparked through his veins. And his family. What had happened to his family? He wilted a little more every time he pictured them. The very first traces of dawn, a gloomy, pale light made the shuttered blinds of windows glow eerily. The coffin next to the bed sat silent and dark, as foreboding as a casket dug from a grave.