Unlaid

She floated over the horizon. Bathed in the moon's willow light. The sainted Cophelia. The patron of the nothingness. The abbess of the abyss. Dressed in orange folds with an air of undefeated glory. She came close. Suspended before me, she whispered a question. 

She asked me to explain why I was broken. When I asked, am I? She giggled like a schoolgirl. The frost of night shimmered at her humour. She asked me again, this time with emphasis on different words. In response I uttered a meaningless denial. She floated even closer. In her eyes I could see over the precipice. The folds of her wrappings brushed against my exposed skin. I shivered. She looked away and when she looked back she raised an accusing finger. She challenged me. If I would or could not answer I would be unlaid. I looked confused and mumbled. She explained. If I refused a third time I would wander the nothingness and my spirit would not be laid to rest. I would be unlaid.

She floated away towards the horizon. When she turned she came so close I could feel her breath on mine. It was no longer a whisper, it came from deep inside. Why was I broken? At this moment I could feel both currents. Peace and rest or the abyss forever. A cold tear trickled down my cheek. I was broken, it was true. I could not be fixed. But how could I know why?