Calgary. The city full of reminisces and a past Autumn Kingsley's tried an immense amount to leave behind, enclosed in the depths of her hometown where she grew up.
Atlas Miller. Rude, closed off and someone who desperately tries to obstruct any for...
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Autumn Kingsley
A lot of people struggling with the loss of a loved one often tend to reminisce over framed photographs and gifted objects.
With the exception of the silver wrapped around my index finger, it's safe to say that my mind tirelessly attempts to convince my idiotic self that it hasn't almost been four years since my mother's passing.
I still like to think she's here. Even if not physically.
As my eyes trace over each imperfection etched into the cold bathroom tiles, I can't help but let my mind wander somewhere where I'm not some hopeless seventeen year old who can't seem to get over something that's occurred nearly four years ago.
I should be over it by now.
My eyes dart between the two silvers in my possession.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.
Eighteen satisfyingly painful slashes of scarlet.
How much more until I bleed out?
How much more until my existence is no longer something worth caring for?
Three, four, five. Five rolls of some cheap toilet paper wrapped continuously around my right hand to soak up the evidence of hurt, confusion and anger seeping out of me.
How much more until I bleed out?
How much longer?
One, two, three knocks against the wooden barrier blocking out anyone who dares to interfere with the thoughts clouding in my head.
"Autumn you still there?" Lilah's voice sounded worried, almost panicked.
Wiping any evidence off of my face, the remainder off my arms; my hands come into contact with the floor, before using it as support to help myself up.
Clearing my throat, I pull down both sleeves whilst biting down on my bottom lip to suppress the wildfires running up and all over my arms.
I have been set on fire.
I have set myself on fire.
How much more until my existence is burnt away from the face of the earth?
How much longer until I'm nothing but a pile of ashes and smoke?
"Nearly done, I'll be out in a few." Cursing under my breath as I let the faucet run, I roll my sleeves back up before dousing both arms with ice cold water.
I'm putting out fires my mind's telling me not to.
A black, horribly patterned bandana rests on the marbled counter; taking it, I fold it into the desired shape before concealing the freshly painted art that spread across my arms.
Sighing as I place both my hands on either side of the sink, I inhale and exhale a chain of worries and thoughts before somewhat pulling myself back together.
