Traces Forgotten

Mithridates VI

Broken glass that used to be bottles sprinkled the floor like a flood. A man was leaning against the wall, eyelashes fluttering, sweat coated his skin as shallow breaths were exhaled and inhaled. This was his fifth try on a single day, boredom digging into his skin like knives to the point it made him try to find a new hobby.

His hands trembled as he clutched another small bottle helplessly and clumsily opened the lid. The insides were dumped inside his mouth before he dropped the bottle, smashing into tiny bits on the floor.

Whether the stars moved inside his room or his room was roofless in the first place, he couldn't tell. They all shone so brightly, so intimidating, so annoyingly, so distant, so close, so arrogantly, so humble. He prayed his breaths would be the last.

His eyes drifted off into a sleep, a sleep he welcomed with open arms that he distrustingly knew he'd still wake up from.

-

He extended his hand as sunlight crept through the missing parts of the ceiling. All traces of last night forgotten, save for the dull headache he experiences on a daily basis by now. Everything is the same. His hands, the number of feet, eye color, dark hair. The woman in his memories still smiles. She's a plague. A tether to the past. A string he can't cut away. The worst part of it all is that he doesn't even remember who she is. Her voice, eroded. Her eyes and features, erased as if she was never there.

Why has he been cursed? What sins has he committed to deserve this? Why is he so familiar with death to the point he willingly seeks it out? If only there was an end to all things, including him.

He glanced at the neat stack of bottles each labeled with different poisons. He had traveled through most of Europe to obtain these lethal ingredients. Not a single piece of broken glass was on the floor. All bottles unopened, same number displayed as before.

His hands weren't even stained red and trembling from the overdose. If anything, he looked as alive as ever. He walked to a mirror and tugged at his mouth to form a smile. How many days has it been since he last smiled? No, better yet, when was the last time he looked into a mirror? His eyes were puffy, gloomy, murky eyes stared back at him, dark down set brows and a prominent nose plastered his face into the "attractive" category. To be tired and hungry is to be alive. To be messy and disheveled is to have lived. He sighed lightly, pressing his fingers under the puffy skin around his eyes. He shivered as a cool wind entered like an invader inside his tiny home.

It was winter, and even though it was six in the morning, it was still horribly dark out. The sudden change in time left him disoriented, as time skipped back as if it was nothing at all. He had already lived this. It should've been nine by now. And yet it's still dark again.

He moved over to a small, low wooden table where knives and carving materials lay. He picked up the knife and sliced his palm until a ruby red descended from the cut. The man kneeled down, his hand close to his eyes as he steadily examined the way the blood flowed down, down, gravity doing its best to do its job. 

He counted. One, two, three, four, five, not even eighteen seconds had passed before the blood began to trickle back to the outpour of blood, the trickle stopping. Then, once all the liquid had gathered, the wound began to close itself up again. 

It almost seemed as if golden threads were descending from heaven and fixing up the broken toy, his broken body back up once again. Was there an entity watching him, scrutinizing him and thinking, "what a silly boy," as he tried to take his life over and over again? Was that it? Was he nothing but a puppet, a muse for his creator's interest?