Escaped Criminal (Z.M.)

insanity

Sanity.
/ ˈsanitē /
noun
The ability to think and behave in normal and rational manner; sound mental health.

Derived from Latin's 'sanitas,' which means health, from 'sanus' meaning healthy dating back from the early 17th century.

Such a precious thing.

Such an alluring characteristic.

So rare and beautiful.

So charming.

Something I lacked. I was sure of it.

This time apart was supposed to be me working on myself and my being. I was supposed to work on me so I could become a better version of me, but apparently that wasn't the case.

Insanity.

Driven by delusion and complete and utter madness.

Insanity.

Now that was something I had.

Insanity.

The word tasted so foul on my tongue. So sour on my lips.

I remember searching the definition of it online this one time.

Insanity
/ɪnˈsanəti/
noun
The state of being seriously mentally ill; madness.

Derived from the Latin word 'insanitas,' from 'insanus' and added to the English word 'insane' resulting in this marvelous word. Insanity.

Whether you classed me or not as insane, that was your choice. But when I looked in the mirror - not just glanced, but really looked at myself - I knew there was something twisted and mad about me. I was indeed on the brink of insanity.

My hands were cold. They were as pale as snow. It was so unusual and peculiar. A complete contrast to my usual skin tone and complexion.

Time ticked on the clock so slowly. The moments never felt precious, however, and I wanted oh so badly for the time to tick quicker. For the day to end. There was no reason for time to be prolonged anymore. Because only in my sleep did I ever feel truly myself.

This longing I felt inside me was slowly killing me from inside out whether I would admit it or not. I longed for a touch, but not just any touch. I longed for Zayn's.

I longed for his hands to caress my cheek so delicately. I longed for those big, gentle honey eyes of his to stare intently into my own as his long eyelashes framed them beautifully. I longed to feel his stubble at my fingertips, the roughness on my smooth, slender fingers as I caress his cheek. I longed to hear his voice. That alluring, English accent which was laced with seductiveness. I longed for it all, but I would never get it again. I was so certain of that at this moment.

And I guess that's what hurt most about it.

"You can't just mope around like this," I could imagine my mother saying... If she were alive that is. "This isn't healthy. You can't rely on someone for your own happiness. It's just not right."

It had been a while since I've heard my mothers voice. After the accident, I kept having these recurring dreams of my parents. They were so vivid in my mind as if a cassette player were to replay these certain moments in my life which included them. But, like I said, that was when the death was still fresh. I stopped having those dreams when I reached 10.

My mother had always been beautiful. So young and virtuous. By the time I was born, my mother had been no older than 23. You could only imagine that. By the age if 23 she not only had one child, but also another on top of that whom she gave birth to at only 20.