elegy of the roses [thorned hearts: one]

present trauma

That incident was four years ago. And it was the most exciting happening in my whole life up until now. Break free! Break free of the past!

These memories were gone now. The rush vanished, no thrill left behind. Almost nothing.

The voices in his head never disappeared.

Never.

Everywhere he laid his eyes upon, darkness emerged. And there, a sinister grin curled up on his face.

His eyes had such a tint of maleficence, glowing in the dark as he stares deeply into his surroundings.

There was a sole window in his apartment, a glass window pane covered with a thick layer of dust. It was the only way to get the room a less musty.

It was hard to see the end of the dim-lit room, but he was certain of many things. Certain of his furniture. He noted mentally as his little morning mind game the things of the room he was inside of. He starts from the left and inhumanly, almost mechanically, let his eyes wander.

One wooden chair and table made of sturdy oak, and on top is a small, glass flower vase with two or three wilted roses.

A wardrobe with hardly anything inside. Made of same oak freshly painted white with numerous, yet subtle scratches.

A small altar at the left side of the room's corner with jaded figurines of angels and humans, a small, vermillion casket [vibrant in color] at the back. It contains a pocket knife enclosed inside the casket's velvet lining.

One... one, his eyes shot dead, seemingly struggling to remember. Not caring, he continued.

One medium-sized persian rug, dusty and ragged, with three or more blotches of coffee spills.

Two... he continued, then whispers around him roamed about his head, making him at ease. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes once more, enumerating the final things of the dim-lit bedroom in which he resided in.

Two glass lanterns, one functional, the other shattered into pieces, all glass shards are put inside the top drawer of the wooden bedside table at the right, well-varnished, and expertly made of narra.

A basin and a mirror beside the drawer, with a towel rack, with a ragged, dirty whitish terrycloth dangling undisturbed.

And a small cooler box at the bed's left filled with glass bottles of water from the sink (potable water, it was).

His mind rested assured. As he stood up from the bed, he goes straight to the basin and began washing his face. He was a fairly handsome young man, with light-green eyes and a pair of 'stiffly straight' [so they say] lips. His pale face stands out of that dim-lit room, reflecting at the mirror of broken shards.

He breathes heavily as he continued to look at the mirror, he lost control, shrieking an inhumanly wail, punching the mirror hardly, scarring his left hand knuckles. He was shaken.

I did not kill them, he thought repeatedly, I didn't do anything...

Nothing... I didn't kill them.

I'm innocent.

I'm not the culprit...

I never wanted it... to happen...

He stood up and hurriedly left that dreary 'excuse' of an apartment.

This is my life, filled with all present trauma.