A purple cloak looms over me. Not like a guardian angel, nothing of the sort. If it was A passion for death. Something like hell spawn. Numbing, bony fingers hover over my shoulder, waiting impatiently.
The wait is torture in itself, far worse than being shot, cut, burned, flattened, asphyxiated, run over. Far, far worse than the pain. Time is punishment for an uncommitted crime. Time is then, time is now, time is resemblant to mortality, and it scares me. Shakes me down to my core.
The earthy smell has fruity undertones, slightly metallic too. My nose burns. I hear it's call. I feel it's quite familiar, because I no longer sweat. I no longer cry. Not at the face of death.
I just begin to swear under my breath, and curse like someone can hear me over the tick of the broken clock. Only I know how fucked up it is, having watched it reverse over and over again, hoping someday things would change.
It's not sudden, or jarring anymore.
I'm not a perfect kid, not 'innocent' like my classmates, or naturally smart. I don't stay out of trouble (nor do I incite it).Staring at my missing tooth, messy blonde hair and the heavily-stitched parka, I know it all. But I have an unattainable dream like any other kid.
One day it'll be better. No more pain, no more reliving, no more grief, nothing.
