The glass of red wine in my hands looks like blood. I can’t bring myself to taste it. I pour it away, watching it circle the sink before running cold water to wash away the red. Déjà vu strikes swift and deep. Red swirling with water. I close my eyes, wish away the vision of the past and sigh softly.

I am alone in the house. No furniture, no television to break the silence. Alone. I belong here, draped in nothingness, drenched in emotion, crying into wine glasses and wondering if I could find the door in the dark. I feel like a goldfish, darting about in a glass bowl, watched from the outside, forever wondering on the inside. I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t cry, I can’t keep swimming.

I float to the bottom of the bowl, breathing in the ice water filling my lungs. Shivering with a sense of relief, a sense of desire, I cry icicle tears. My senses are frozen, I hear no noise, I smell no scent, I see no visions, I taste no flavour, I feel nothing.

And still the red mixes with the water, and still déjà vu grasps at my soul. And still I stay. Still.