It melted off. Every single ounce, slowly like the wax on a burning candle. The cut of the knife slicing through layers, superficial and deep, leaving behind what was and had been. It was time for the metamorphosis. Time to break through that tough chrysalis poking, wriggling, squirming. Breaking out of that conforming shell. Revealing the old, yet the new. Blinking against the bright light of the sun, finally exiting the darkness. Bare and vulnerable to the world that had once created the thick, dark shell in which to hide, to recede from it all. The darkness like a cozy blanket, creating an envelope of warmth so comforting and soothing against the skin. Yet, it is ripped away as the self-evolves, remembers what was, bringing those memories to the surface. It begs to return to the old self. To revive the life that was choked off by the layers, the disgusting layers. The layers that stole happiness and people. The layers that removed bits and pieces of the self, cacti needles being removed excruciatingly slowly, one at a time. But the self-fights. It wants to win. It takes a bat to the darkness, shattering it. Shards of it flying everywhere. The self-does not care. It wants freedom, the light. The layers are defeated, its reign over. Perspiring, inhaling and exhaling confidently, although quickly, shaking. Its eyes are raised up, no longer forced to look down. The layers are gone. The darkness is gone. Light and freedom come to the surface, flooding the self, its time locked away over. The puddle covers the floor. The self-stands in it, laughter in its eyes. Glinting in a way that was thought lost forever. Thought to have been stolen to the darkness, that wretched, wretched darkness. But it is all reclaimed now.