So it’s been a while, I have been struggling to be confident this week in honesty. I haven’t had the best week.
So, for example, I nearly fell down my stairs for the second time in like a month. I think my stairs are a hazard; the idea of falling is genuinely equally scary to being eaten by a bear, to me. I dislike the idea of pain, with a severe incapability to stop crying if someone pinches me, for instance.
I know, that doesn’t sound as bad as bad could be. And, truthfully, I’m not as comfortable to speak on a blog as I thought I would be. Not in non-fiction prose anyhow. So, fiction it is again. I’m sorry if I am starting to bore you with story upon story galore. It’s all I know.
It’s not the end…yet. Her lungs filled with oxygen, which was a surprise to everyone but her. The end was not nigh, which allowed her face to curve into a frown with the immensity of oxygen so wished to leave the party in her chest.
The incident wasn’t seemingly purposeful. That is what everyone thought. No one even asked her, ‘what happened?‘ The insensitivity of them swamped her and caused claustrophobia to announce itself into destruction. When her body was oblivious to life calling her into consciousness, she tried to resist the temptation of going back into life without love. No love from, well, anyone. The graffiti vandalised on her heart was not even painted on by her parents, family or façade of a friendship group. But by those who didn’t know her. Those who she should know.
She was riding her bicycle alone in the dark, which was the definition of the ‘doom and gloom’ cliché. She was not afraid. The darkness was not a creature to her. It was more of a mystery. An enigma just waiting to be solved like a maths equation.
Her mind got sidetracked. Thinking about why the world was tumbling directly down into the pit of her stomach so she couldn’t eat, let alone breathe. She felt hopeless, as if the world was a pretence of the universal disfunction. She knew that whatever she did, whatever the world signalled her to do wouldn’t change the people she knew. It wouldn’t change their opinion of her, with her picture imperfect face; with her damaged dollhouse she was on her way to die in.
Luckily a barrier became benevolent enough to help of her. With the sharpness of the sky-high friend she had made with just a glare from the hope it sprung on her, she clocked that it was the universe allowing her to disappear with immediate effect. This is what she pleaded God every day, but, he never once listened to her until this day. He was always a stubborn monster manifesting malevolence. Which, she thought, was the opposite of what God was made for. He was her father, no? With the wishes that she would live miserable with a burden hung over head like a hood.
She looked eye to eye with the lamppost in front of her beautiful concealment, while it was complimenting her desperation. ‘A picture of broken mirror…‘ the lamppost beckoned as he opened his arms wide so she could ride liberally into his grasp.
With this force, she was broken. The bike bounced into her exterior disappointment and through to her distilling internal organs. Cut, blood, disgust into demolishment with the bounce that cascaded into flowers of purity. Her eyes slowly shut into the shimmering starlight of summer. This is where she wanted to be. In a pretty afterlife where no one could interrupt her peace. However, before she knew it a car drove up to her disintegrating body on the pavement. She was still there, in the unwelcoming world. He took out his phone and called someone frantically. And soon ambulance sirens were heard and to her rescue. This is not what I want! Leave me alone!
No one would listen to her. This meant that she got better. And God forbade her plead once again. She felt anonymous. With her family surrounding her bitterness. She may as well have been called ‘Jane Doe’, with no one really caring that the end was nigh. But, it wasn’t, was it? She was a picture of an imperfect face with her damaged dollhouse she was on her way to live in…
The game she wanted to play was up. What was the point in that?
Sorry for the morbidity. It was all inspired by a subconscious source.
If you hadn’t guessed, this didn’t happen to me. I am not nearly strange enough to think a lamppost could compliment my beauty…
Thanks for reading!