They finally decide to do something about her too white skin (lack of sunlight, but that doesn't stop her from hating, hating, hating it, hating herself) and too thin body (her mother would've loved it, she had never loved anything about her but this body-this scarred, broken, skinny body would've pleased her).
The new volunteer gently guides her through the gray and black and bleak hallways that reeks of death and nothingness, but that's all right because there is no white aound-not like the all too bustling tunnels in the hospital from so long ago-so long ago, she doesn't even know when.
She doesn't want to go, but she doesn't protest, doesn't protest, her body feels so heavy, her mind feels so numb, stuffed with static and cotton balls, she feels so tired, of it all.
The new volunteer leads her through winding passageways, cutting through grids of flooring and stairways, before she pushes open a door (heavy and opaque, no sign of freedom, but there is no freedom, only asphodels that spread from infinity to infinity).
She cringes, expecting the sun's harsh rays (another non-regret, the absence of ths sun, another regret, the quenching of the moon), but nothing burns her white (too white, too blinding) skin.
"Open your eyes."
A voice of nothing, that doesn't blind, doesn't shroud, doesn't burn. Nothing, an absence of somethng, so lonely yet so reassuring.
She opens her eyes.
YOU ARE READING
Her Definition Of "Life"
Short Story"A sane person to an insane society must appear insane." -Kurt Vonnegut "she wasn't living" She truly believed that she had found the meaning of life. Or rather, the meaning of her life. "there never was anything in her" For her, she wanted to spen...
