Writing: the art that soothes my soul.
The thoughts that torment my every woken night,
Following me through my days
Shouting, whispering
Clawing at the edges of my mind
Each one trying to come first
As their grips slip and fall away
It is the one to see me ache at the very mention of what I would make them become.
Blood drips out of my head onto lined sheets of paper
Showing open jagged wounds for everyone to see;
To poke at. To prod.
The jabs are never twice the same. The pain becoming worse and worse until my woken nights become every waking hour. Nothing matters until those wounds are healed, until the sore has closed and the eyes have left me to fall in tearing into hardened skin with torn nails.
My hands start to shake. My eyes begin to water. I delve back into the oceans of my mind reaching out to grab a remaining hand, searching for the monster which once so willingly came, only to be left lost and empty-handed.
I swim deeper into the sea. I keep going don't know how long I can go on. My movements become slow, no longer moving in the fast paced motions in which I began. And as soon as I breathe out that last breath and the pressure becomes far too much to bear, I see it.
What a beautiful creature…
Everything disappears.
Bright light glares against my eyes, temporarily blinding me. Disoriented, I feel around blindly with my hands. I'm in bed. I swing my legs over the side of my bed. My body stiffens and I feel a smile slowly creep onto my face.
The wait was over.
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
