I can hear your lips moving, every change in sound crisp and yet so subtle; the lilt in your voice only noticable in the small bubble around us as it still manages to expand to fill the air around me.

You talk, and I listen.

Close my eyes to the sound of your voice, sincere and heartwarmingly safe.

I would apologize

a thousand times more

if it helped,

but I suppose

you’d prefer the silence.

That’s okay too,

I guess.

It was familiar; nostalgic in a sense.

The chasm gaped beneath her, beckoning. She knew, oh believe me, she knew. The choice was apparent, glaringly obvious even. Even in the silence where she was, expectations rang in her ears and deafened her.

But in the stillness between worlds, who was to care?

In truth, nothing really mattered.

She isn’t obligated to do anything, right?

The baggage shoved on her day by day, ever increasing, does she dare shrug it off? To lift herself and, without warning, free herself from the chains that she damned herself to so long ago?

Of course not.

Coward.

She toils on, moving as far forward as every movement back,

The tunnel never-ending.

But then it does.

Because without the character, where is the story?

The darkness came for her.

It grabbed hold of her,
Forced her down,
And she succumbs,

Alone.

Why bother?

Because all that is left is the haze, with the ever-changing line that is as unclear as the horizon between the smoke and the water. And mirrors, mirrors everywhere. Words are hurled viciously, in a never ending stream that only flows one way, threatening to overflow and pull me under.

But a silence slowly emerges, stretching to reach into the depths of the room, creating the buzz in my ears that becomes increasingly unbearable until it drowns out all else and throws me into darkness. And then a match is thrown, breaking through the air and ripping the haze into flame, never gentle, and always overbearing. Nothing like the kind light of a candle, but the blazing inferno of a forest of a thousand trees set afire. The endless burn claws at wounds, pulling attention to nothing besides and muting the dull ache in the heart of the woods that never dimished entirely.

And then as quickly as it came, it was gone. Through the charred remains, the guilt is taken in again, like an old friend in a now unfamiliar circle; unwelcome, but comforting in its nostalgia. The smoke thins ever so slightly, returning to the sea that no longer reflects anything below. And then we’re simply back to the start, stranded among the waves with no way back to shore.

But perhaps there was a way. Somehow, we could have managed. But it failed to happen. So we’re back to the original question, with motives and intentions long lost beneath, down at the seafloor;

Is it me, or is it you?

Because I could be gone.

The dull, aching pain again; it was bound to resurface.

It grasped at the stomach, and bruised the heart. It chilled, from the inside out. The uncomfortable, never ending ache. It was constant; she could find no break from it. She groaned.

It seemed like for every peaceful hour attained, there always had to be one or two of the opposite sort. Retribution of a kind, she supposed; morally right and fully deserved. A smile tugged at her lips. She wondered how long it would last this time.

She rolled over in her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling in the dim light of her lamp. What she would give for the pain to end; she could not take it. It was perpetual, and completely out of her control; she could not grasp it. She clawed at her chest, leaving fait tracks on her skin that throbbed pink with spots of red. She stopped herself, and lay on the bed in silence for a few seconds. Then suddenly -

She giggled.

Ironic, how someone who has grown so comfortably numb could feel pain, but not anger. Not sadness. Not happiness. She had no true emotion, though her heart probably knew it; a relic from older days. No, she only knew pain; muted pain, out of her grasp.

She couldn’t take it anymore. Thrusting her arm under the pillow, she expected the touch of the cold metal she knew so well. But there was nothing there. Panic welling up somewhere inside of her; she shot up, fighting the rising scream that threatened to burst from her lips. But somehow, she calmed. Ah, right. That woman was cleaning house a bit ago, and she probably found it in horror, throwing it out. No worries, she had one more. She stumbled in the dark to her bookshelf, and her fingers flew over the shelves, searching for the soft, leather-bound book that was wedged between her old magazines and the books she used to love. Pulling the old Bible from the shelf, she flipped through the pages until she saw the glint of metal nestled at the spine between two thin pages. A smile flitted across her face.

Throwing herself back onto her bed, she crossed her legs and rested her back against the headboard. She carefully picked up the blade, and tossed the book off to the side, landing with a muted thud on the soft carpet. A delicious feeling welled up inside of her as she ran the tip of her finger gently across the blade. A thin, red line formed. Clearly grinning now, the girl rolled up her sleeve and poked at her arm with the razor. A bubble of blood rose from the prick and wobbled before sliding slowly down her arm, leaving a beautiful red trail that contrasted so greatly with her tone. Skin was so fragile, so soft; so easy to break through.

But there was no time for such musing. Shoe had but one objective: get rid of the pain. Delicious anticipation welling up inside of her, she positioned the blade over her wrist. Her lips curved into a wide smile. Bringing the blade down on herself, she made five quick, deep slashes along her wrist. She exhaled quickly. How could she have forgotten this feeling? A sound escaped her lips. Making slower cuts now, she dragged the blade across her skin, putting pressure on it as she watched in morbid fascination. The blade left thin lines on her skin that quickly dyed themselves red before finally welling up into large orbs of blood and trailing the thick, red liquid down her arm.

But the dull ache was still there. How could it be? She gritted her teeth, and quickened her pace, making deeper slashes, higher and higher up her arm. Blood flew from the blade, and splattered her sheets. More. She needed more. Why wasn’t the ache disappearing? Disappear! Leave! Tears welled up in her eyes, as she flung the razor away, and collapsed on her pillow. Red dots flew everywhere. They were everywhere.

She lay there, dangling her throbbing arm over the edge of the bed, feeling the blood trickle down her arms, flow through her fingers, and collect at her fingertips. Her blood dripped from her fingers, and was quickly soaked into the thick, pale carpet. Drip. Drip. She would take care of that later.

She closed her eyes.

Ah, that constant ache was gone. It was gone, replaced by the piercing pain in her left arm that attacked her without restraint. She giggled quietly to herself, and licked her lips in delight. Mmn. This was so much better. Like needles all over her arm, this was something concrete, something tangible. This blinding pain was something she could grasp.

Something so very, very real ⋆