It was a day full of tears, tears in isolation, for not even the heavens cried with me that day.
As the dry wind rattled the world outside the windows of my prison and fortress, I sat in that room, glued to the corner. In the center there stood an old and worn chair that used to creak amicably at whoever sat in it; once such a heartwarming sight, invoking dear memories, now a morbid testament to my downfall.
The rope is strong. So said the shop assistant, in response to my frantic pressuring. And it must be, I think to myself. It looks out of place with its newness, almost anti-climatic. The rope is strong. But what about the chair?
I dared not come in contact with it, for I feared my instincts would overpower me completely. Staring my own agony in the face, I chose to savor it, before I go. I forced myself out of the room, creeping close to the walls, as if the gloomy scene in the middle was hot to the touch. Closing the door felt like shutting the eye of an impending sea monster, coming to swallow me whole. It's not enough to silence my mind.
I sat near the window and traced the stains with my finger. I looked up at the sky, praying that the yearning in my gaze doesn't betray my intentions. Come home, angel. The voice, the very same voice that had been freezing me from the inside, it whispered so sweetly. I felt the warm stream of tears wash down my face like a tidal wave.
A steel coloured cloud floated with haste above the stone cold horizon. More towered threateningly beyond the world. The gates remain closed. Almost mockingly, they stared back right into me. They weren't locked, no. Some poor soul somewhere is already on its way through them. They're closed to me, me specifically, taunting me for my cowardice, laughing at my inability, as if patronising a timid child, as if reprimanding with a smile full of contempt.
Come, they seemed to say. Come and taste tranquility.
Sweet Jesus, was it all I ever dreamed of.
What have I done to anger you, Father? Why do you long for my sorrow?
Just another misstiched puppet in the hands of a cruel or perhaps thoughtless dollmaker, with half an arm trying to embrace itself to ward off the cold. Just another one of your mistakes, I am. A bitter letdown, a failed creation.
Malfunction. The word brushes against my brain, awakening another sweet sting of pain in my chest, smelling of sulfur. You are a malfunction.
Born crooked, designed to suffer. By some brutal irony of life not thrown off the production line and forsaken, alone against the pain. Hopeless, sick and dead. Broken beyond repair.
A scream escapes my throat and I feel my nails digging into my skin. Like a festering sore sprinkled with salt, I burn. As the pain peaks, the world becomes even grayer and, as if my insides were replaced with cotton, I am numb again. Now I merely ache.
My own words circle above me like crows, feasting on the despair. Fallen from grace. Coming undone. I'm dying.
Reality melts into chaos-ridden dreams and a fever burns through me, only fueling the nightmare, my own face with hauntingly empty eyes looking right through me. The shadow, that awful shadow watching me, hunting me again, raping me with its gaze, thousands of claws ripping through my skin and oh dear god, am I still falling? The madness escalates and I grasp for air desperately, grabbing at nothing I slip further and further into the boiling abyss and...
...a nightingale sang. Short and sweet, the melody fills the room with ease. A morning breeze flew in through the window, bringing word of flowers and rain. To my surprise, there is a light shining through the dusty curtains. A bright, cold glare, seeping into my bedroom, creating an illuminated path.
A voice, so different from the freezing whispers from behind my spine, calls me from what feels like up. It sounds as if coming from a broken radio, almost drowned out by the static, but the message is clear.
Wake up.
I get up and turn my head to the source of the sound.
Wake up.
One step. I can feel the wooden floorboards beneath my feet, I can hear them creaking...
Wake up.
Two, three. The floor is gone. I'm wading through a mist, heading towards the light. All directions become blurred, everything is drowned in the fog, as if I'm swimming in cream.
Wake up.
I struggle for air, desperately fighting to get to the light. I scream, but all sound is lost in this denseness. Kicking and fighting off the overwhelming darkness crawling over me, I force myself to keep going. Four. My vision is gone. I was knee deep in the bog, now it closes over my head. A furious determination takes over me. No. Not like this. Five. Anger lights up inside me and spreads like a wildfire, almost boiling the dense liquid around me. I scream again, this time in rage rather than agony. I motivate every atom of my existence to push forward, I reach deep inside to find the will to live, the desire to survive. I'll make it out of here. I will. I have to. Si-
A sharp, screeching sound of the electrocardiograph pierces me.
And then I fall.
thanks for reading
As the dry wind rattled the world outside the windows of my prison and fortress, I sat in that room, glued to the corner. In the center there stood an old and worn chair that used to creak amicably at whoever sat in it; once such a heartwarming sight, invoking dear memories, now a morbid testament to my downfall.
The rope is strong. So said the shop assistant, in response to my frantic pressuring. And it must be, I think to myself. It looks out of place with its newness, almost anti-climatic. The rope is strong. But what about the chair?
I dared not come in contact with it, for I feared my instincts would overpower me completely. Staring my own agony in the face, I chose to savor it, before I go. I forced myself out of the room, creeping close to the walls, as if the gloomy scene in the middle was hot to the touch. Closing the door felt like shutting the eye of an impending sea monster, coming to swallow me whole. It's not enough to silence my mind.
I sat near the window and traced the stains with my finger. I looked up at the sky, praying that the yearning in my gaze doesn't betray my intentions. Come home, angel. The voice, the very same voice that had been freezing me from the inside, it whispered so sweetly. I felt the warm stream of tears wash down my face like a tidal wave.
A steel coloured cloud floated with haste above the stone cold horizon. More towered threateningly beyond the world. The gates remain closed. Almost mockingly, they stared back right into me. They weren't locked, no. Some poor soul somewhere is already on its way through them. They're closed to me, me specifically, taunting me for my cowardice, laughing at my inability, as if patronising a timid child, as if reprimanding with a smile full of contempt.
Come, they seemed to say. Come and taste tranquility.
Sweet Jesus, was it all I ever dreamed of.
What have I done to anger you, Father? Why do you long for my sorrow?
Just another misstiched puppet in the hands of a cruel or perhaps thoughtless dollmaker, with half an arm trying to embrace itself to ward off the cold. Just another one of your mistakes, I am. A bitter letdown, a failed creation.
Malfunction. The word brushes against my brain, awakening another sweet sting of pain in my chest, smelling of sulfur. You are a malfunction.
Born crooked, designed to suffer. By some brutal irony of life not thrown off the production line and forsaken, alone against the pain. Hopeless, sick and dead. Broken beyond repair.
A scream escapes my throat and I feel my nails digging into my skin. Like a festering sore sprinkled with salt, I burn. As the pain peaks, the world becomes even grayer and, as if my insides were replaced with cotton, I am numb again. Now I merely ache.
My own words circle above me like crows, feasting on the despair. Fallen from grace. Coming undone. I'm dying.
Reality melts into chaos-ridden dreams and a fever burns through me, only fueling the nightmare, my own face with hauntingly empty eyes looking right through me. The shadow, that awful shadow watching me, hunting me again, raping me with its gaze, thousands of claws ripping through my skin and oh dear god, am I still falling? The madness escalates and I grasp for air desperately, grabbing at nothing I slip further and further into the boiling abyss and...
...a nightingale sang. Short and sweet, the melody fills the room with ease. A morning breeze flew in through the window, bringing word of flowers and rain. To my surprise, there is a light shining through the dusty curtains. A bright, cold glare, seeping into my bedroom, creating an illuminated path.
A voice, so different from the freezing whispers from behind my spine, calls me from what feels like up. It sounds as if coming from a broken radio, almost drowned out by the static, but the message is clear.
Wake up.
I get up and turn my head to the source of the sound.
Wake up.
One step. I can feel the wooden floorboards beneath my feet, I can hear them creaking...
Wake up.
Two, three. The floor is gone. I'm wading through a mist, heading towards the light. All directions become blurred, everything is drowned in the fog, as if I'm swimming in cream.
Wake up.
I struggle for air, desperately fighting to get to the light. I scream, but all sound is lost in this denseness. Kicking and fighting off the overwhelming darkness crawling over me, I force myself to keep going. Four. My vision is gone. I was knee deep in the bog, now it closes over my head. A furious determination takes over me. No. Not like this. Five. Anger lights up inside me and spreads like a wildfire, almost boiling the dense liquid around me. I scream again, this time in rage rather than agony. I motivate every atom of my existence to push forward, I reach deep inside to find the will to live, the desire to survive. I'll make it out of here. I will. I have to. Si-
A sharp, screeching sound of the electrocardiograph pierces me.
And then I fall.
thanks for reading
Don't know how I missed it the first time around.
