“Do not go to sleep,” She commands, gripping my shoulders with enough force to momentarily chase the drowsiness away. Her touch is an electric shock, raising goosebumps, carving my spine upright. The cyan veins snaking around her fingers caught the waning moonlight, the only bright colour in the growing fog.
I rub my drooping eyelids, promptly smearing drying blood over my eyes as I do so. But it doesn’t matter. Everything I see is black with splotches of red anyway. The new shade of crimson blends well into my blood-shot vision.
The crusts tumble down my tear-stained cheeks, tickling them like my hair used to whenever my head hung forward. I’d forgotten my fingernails were caked with dried blood. My blood.
The red rivers run a map down my wrists, outdoing my salty waterfalls.
A hand on my bald scalp. “That is where it lives,” She whispers, her voice as familiar to me as the howling wind in the prison that is my mind.
She says it like it is tangible, an entity that can be flushed out, a delusional mimicry of the monsters that have choked me relentlessly these past two months.
At her warning, trembles take hold of my frame, the spot beneath her hand suddenly set aflame. The cacophony of voices grows, brewing chaos inside me, hammering at my bones, demanding to be released. The throbbing turns incessant, my hands fly to my temples, fingernails mercilessly raking raw skin, gripping, clawing, but unable to find purchase. Hot tears sting open lesions on my lips and blur my vision, incapacitating me further in the darkness.
“You should be able to sleep in three days or so,” she assures me, a yell now, above the sickening blows of accusations and raging storms caged in my head.
A fractured apparition of my former self – she fixes her luminous eyes on mine, searching for light I cannot see.
The fog caresses her lush, pitch-black hair, enveloping her torso in seconds.
“I’m going to kill it.”
A wheezing noise is all I can manage as my sore throat wails in protest. It escapes my cracked lips, comparable to the withered daisies beneath my feet, echoing the hollows of skin pulled tautly over bone – me, a wrecked vessel.
How can this… person…before me be so… whole?
An empty promise to a hopeless suicidal; I want to laugh at the audacity to even try.
It’s been a while since I have written prose. I kinda miss it.
This was concocted based on the following word prompt from a friend:
Prompt : “Do not go to sleep. That is where it lives. You should be able to sleep in three days or so. I’m going to kill it.”
Whether my friend found it somewhere or came up with it, I’m not sure. I have yet to send this to said friend though, because this draft did not adhere to her caveat, namely: no physical descriptions of your characters that don’t specifically point to a character trait.
Writing within guidelines was harder than I thought it would be. When I write prose, or any form to be honest, the words just… pour out, like they were plucked from my subconscious, waiting to be constructed into a story the whole time. So perhaps I will post a revised version of this prose in the future, one (re)written according to the condition. The title of this short piece … may or may not change. Meh.