Mila Babinski is the most deadly assassin the underground has seen in years... all the mobsters fear her... she even fears herself. Mila lost everyone she ever cared for at a young age and the time has now finally come to get her revenge. But when...
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Glass.
I never really liked things made of it. The idea of something so beautiful being so delicate...so easily broken.
It was the one thing my mother used to compare me to all the time when I was young.
I was the glass in a world full of heights.
She used to tell me that it was one of the things she loved about me...that I was so bonnie...so dainty...so fragile.
I was able to feel, unlike the monsters I call enemies.
I was the edge...the edge of the heights.
She never wanted me to be apart of this dark world. The world where things made of glass were destroyed by the men who stood so tall.
Since the day she died, I haven't wanted anything more then to prove that I'm not what she used to compare me to, that my innocence isn't something that can't withstand the brutality of the men that surround me.
That I can be just as high up as them.
That I can be the height.
~~~
I stare blankly at the reflection in front of me. My face scattered with the bruises I so desperately tried to cover up.
Placed to the right of me lay the glimmer of relief that could send me to a place where I deserved.
Where I deserve the pain.
I flick the canister open watching the flame burn, the intensity dancing around my fingertips towards my thigh, the heat penetrating on my skin, concentrating the darkness I can't seem to get away from. Hoping that the slither of light could somehow bring me back...back to when I was young.
But I guess...you can always melt glass.
Let me rephrase the misconception of my wording of "relief" the flame doesn't bring me relief in the way that it makes me feel good because...I don't want to feel better. I want to feel the pain, the burning, I want to feel something...but I'm numb.
The idea of feeling anything at all seems to be lost, I've become so used to the suffering that I no longer feel.
So as I watch the flame burn brighter and brighter, I don't remove it, I let it carry on burning and burning...
Each day a little bit longer...hoping one of those days the smell of flesh would actually sicken me or make me scream out in agony. But instead I stand there lifeless watching the painless torture take place.
I guess my mother was wrong after all.
I'm not able to feel...not anymore anyways.
But the thing I worked so hard for, for the emotions of any kind that I crave, one of them has managed to resurface.
