Shards ~

~ memories ~

My family's been dead for as long as I can remember.

Ever since I was a little girl, one thing was made clear: keep silent. And so I did. My conscience slowly awakens as broken shards of glass carve into my delicate fingers. I wince, but the pain is nothing compared to some of the things I've experienced, so my mouth stays shut.

Cold-hearted tears trickle down, mingling with the crimson blood on the window. The glass reflects a heartless soul, one that's shallow and cruel, with memories only revealed once the heart is unlocked.

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Fayette

The rays of the silver moon struggled to pierce through the dense fog enveloping the small town I stood in. My coat was pulled tighter around me, the chills biting ferociously at me through the thin fabric.

The streets were an eerie shade of quiet, presenting itself as a blunt contrast to the havoc within my mind. I staggered past rows of identical houses, each one painted in the same, repetitive colours. Their windows were dark and uninviting, which mirrored the empty-like movements that the rare pedestrian displayed to the vast audience of stark stone.

Not a tree, nor a single piece of life in sight.

My final destination was the abandoned library on the edge of this barren town, a place that had become my refuge over the years. It was there, among the dusty shelves and forgotten stories, that I found a semblance of peace. As I approached the grand, weathered doors, I paused, taking a deep breath before pushing them open.

Inside, the familiar scent of aged paper and leather greeted me. A sense of solemnity glanced up from the creaky desk, its eyes softening with recognition. It was one of the few "things" who knew me. Or at least, part of me.

"Good evening," I let out, my voice coming out more of a croak rather than a fluent sound.

It managed a small smile, nodding in response.

I wandered through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of the books, searching among the endless rows of ancient for a quiet moment. Surrounded by the whispers of forgotten tales, my breath tightened, my airways restricting in return.

I shudder as the temperature drops, the moonlight projecting a glimmer of hope that was soon diminished among the chaos that this world holds. My tangled black hair blows in the howling wind beneath my feet, my skin starting to peel due to the icy fog infecting my senses. The line between black and white blurs on my skin, blotches of colour that have no discernible purpose but to be a curse on oneself.

My whispering voice echoes amidst the dust that entraps me, yearning to escape. Outside, the world continued its relentless pace, but here, within these walls, time seemed to stand still. It reminds me of how love works. Where one heart gives the most it ever could, but the second might never accept its cruel fate.

Where it yells for help.

Suffering in silence.

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