Stories of her Broken Mask

Prologue

My memory is precise yet I can not find myself recalling anything of meaningful importance. This very moment of recognition, I came to my old years revealing its slender form being scratched upon these parchment paper cards; Upon which I found within my husband's expensive mahogany, leather patented briefcase.

Anxiety was ridding me of all sanity as I am scribbling down sloppy letters of my own mourning of a cold man. Ghostly white hands of unsteady motion summon tears in which are piercing these cold cheeks; As if impaling the glorification of the happiness as if I had once held its hand. For he was everything and nothing; A nuisance of a politically inaccurate postulate that knew how to pin my fears to a wall and sever them; Saving me in dreams in reality all the complete same to him. Burden was who he was in a package of golden ribbon which contained a silver, splintering box cutter of cruelty.

My name now widowed and standing alone without the last. Complications of thoughts and morals blind my perception and force me to retreat, push past the textured sheets and melt my crumpled form downward to the French crafted oak floor. Gasping and wincing at the past recollections and grin worthy times while the pain of loss sliced my sides. To think like a child undergoing the realization of how meaningless their life truly is. Not at all am I fine with the state I am in contrasting as I am it has consumed me. Demons built me and gave me the hope that one day I'd be free of burdens.

On a better note, on a better day, I write what little I have left inside the ever deafening mind of age. Before death do bid myself forever eternity, I wish to rest my head knowing a story of thine hast been acknowledged by thee.