At Last, Numb

Chapter One

From skin glowing, to colour fading, her eyes had rolled back and her muscles finally relaxed. Her anxious thoughts had suddenly vanished and her stress had ran away. At long last she was in peace, far away from any malice and any harm, she could go on without nuisances bothering her. The water flooded her breath, flooded her body, the thing that gave her life could also remove it. It ran cool in her veins and swam in her lungs. A small sail-boat rode along the pleura, hoping to find a way out. And out it went, sailed across her trachea and out her mouth. The droplets of thousands of molecules had managed to escape and collapse back down to its companions. 

Her body had been disturbed. Not quite escaping life she, Eleanor, was taken out of her warm sweet water, the one that was bound to kill her, unaware of it. The  drums of his throat had rang and the thunder had hit. The rain fell like strings and puddles grew bigger and bigger, too big.  Her body was lifted and like no one had ever seen before, the stars spread, ran away from their core and the moon fell, leaving a velvet sky dyed in lazuli for the people's eyes to glare at. The sun sprang up, in a hurry, as if the weight of grief was on its back and to protect her, her family, and her legacy. Her beautiful blonde sand-y locks spread apart in no particular order over her pillow, the one her half-dead body had been resting on. Her pale skin covered her weak muscles and bones, bones and muscles so frail that touching her felt like a matador piercing a bull with no struggle. The nurses, all shes, adorned with nurse caps and dresses walked quietly into her room, mistakenly assuming her fate, gave Eleanor the medicine Doctor Hughes had prescribed. 

The sun would spring up for days upon days not giving up the grief on its back. And the grief gave up, as if it was playing hide and go seek whilst blinded by the sun. The same sun that shined into her room lighting the little bit of aura she had left. From aura, to skin, from skin to eyes. She could finally see. The consciousness invaded her brain and suddenly the malice and harm came back. Her seemingly beautiful husband held her hand and she thought "Oh Ernest, your hands feel like they're ropes enslaving my free mind, and your eyes watch my every move hoping I won't do anything for myself. Oh Ernest, I was hoping to be gone and to escape you, Everyone, everything, yet God  has a different plan. Oh Ernest, the God  who gave me life has provided me so much guilt and fear that I rightfully detest him. Oh Ernest, when our lips touch I feel like yours are blades and mine paper. Oh Ernest, Oh god, Oh everything, Oh Everyone, will you please let go. Don't your hands feel weak now? Don't your hands feel numb? Does the feeling of power give you strength? Let me go." 

She lay flat watching the sun and moon everyday and every night hoping they would forget, but they didn't, nor would they ever. She stayed silent for hours at a time even when spoken to. Ernest wanted answers. He felt lost and betrayed and wanted Eleanor, a piece of him, to stay with him until he died. She was never supposed to go first and he still didn't intend on that ever happening.  His voice had poisoned her, rendering her weaker, and the white creaky bed barely managed to support the weight he let grow on her shoulders. What would she say when he'd finally asked "Why?". That she felt stuck and frozen? That her only escape was death? That his eyes went red whenever she was around him? That the love disappeared and she couldn't fathom living with him until she was at his death bed? That being with him was insufferable? Well, she did. She told him everything. His body filled with rage and temper had hunted down any bit of sadness in him. The melancholy had been replaced with rage. The rage of a thousand crows in heaven. His hand flew up and dragged along the air to finally rest on her face. Her blood woke up chasing to the surface right below the skin. She wasn't shocked, she even expected it. Ernest was anything but unexpected. He was classy, old-fashioned and had a roaring ego. His feeling of superiority was a product of centuries before him, teaching his dad to hurt his mom, who taught the next dad to hurt his mom and so on, all the way to his parents. He was a mother's boy, but that didn't stop him. Eleanor wasn't his mother, she was anything but his mother. Eleanor was compliant, a follower. His mom,  a black sheep, glamourous, classy, black sheep. She was different and well-liked among everyone : the newspaper boy, the local baker, her girls, everyone. But, whoever strays different calls for death. The reapers phone had rang and he ran to her. Throwing her soul to hell. She would repent as much as she could but she was greedy and lustful, like no woman should.

"Eleanor?"

A thousand knives ran into her throat and she couldn't respond. Her vocal cords slashed and her mouth drowned in blood. She thought, she healed, she tried, she succeeded.

"Yes?" The spit roamed along her throat making a visible moving bump along the way. 

"It's time to go home."

She sighed. She was terrified even though she knew what was to come. Panic set itself into her brain and flooded her veins. What would she do to get out? She couldn't possibly try to die again, how embarrassing. She thought, she analyzed and the time ticked by slowly killing her. She dreaded going back to her house, not her home. The place where she slept and where her shadow hunted her down. Where she cooked, burnt herself, where she bathed, drowned herself, where she'd poison, poison herself, she consumed her heroin, aware of the risks but the numbness erased any fear. The drug swam across her veins, to her brain removing the pain, numbing her to life, to fear, and it was okay. Ernest was aware but never did anything about it, because, what was the harm in harm reduction?