Finding Henna

1_Heartbeat

"I haven't blocked out the past. I wouldn't trade the person I am, or what I've done – or the people I've known – for anything. So I do think about it. And at times it's a rather mellow trip to lay back and remember." -Ted Bundy

Oh, how I envy the clarity that the bone white fingers of death seem to grant...

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Chapter 1_Heartbeat

My mind and I don't really get along.

"You're never going to get better if you keep lying to yourself. And trust me, I know it's scary. It'll be the most terrifying thing you'll ever do, telling the truth. But I'm here- we're all here- for you. With you," I'm told every day.

And, even looking into their sickeningly self important, condescending faces, I want to tell the truth. I honestly do.
But I just have no idea anymore...

Who is the liar?

Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning inside my own skin:
desperately clawing at the sinless blue air ascending forever above me. Small bubbles of life rush from me in little streams, tickling me as they roll off my skin and rise to the airy heavens.

But all the world sees is the surface. So easily amused, they all clap at the gentle popping of the bubbles. Small children in awe, they celebrate the wonderful sight of the very life leaking from me.

Perhaps water is too kind of a death, though.

I am suffocating, undeniably. Yet I don't feel the soothing embrace of a silent, tranquil world of cool blue. With every limping beat of my heart, I feel scorched. Seared. Strapped to a pyre and burned while the world turns a blind eye.

The whisper of a breeze taunts me as choking black tendrils of smoke escape my bursting, yet starved, lungs.

"Stay strong. Chin up, one day at a time, Sophie. I know how difficult and confusing this all must be for you. But we'll get through it, together." Porcelain dolls with meaningless porcelain smiles chant as they parade around me. It's all I can do not to scream as I'm strangled by my lonesome sanity.

"It'll all be better if you just talk to someone. Talk to us. That's why you're here sweetie," they tell me. For being such fragile, dainty glass dolls, they sure do talk an awful lot.

I wonder how far the porcelain shards of their perfect smiles would shatter across their immaculate floor if all this strangling, black smoke wasn't silencing me...

"You're alive. You're alive. You're alive." My heart murmurs with every sticky, bloody thwomp.

My mind, those porcelain smiles, my shredded heart...

Who is the liar?

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