"A cliche," she said to her friend. "Is nothing but a perfectly crafted half-truth made to invalidate anyone whos expirience is twisted from the norm." Nothing but the rolling of eyes could be seen, so she shut her eyes to block out the noise of their silent annoyance. She opened them again only to realize she was alone, sitting on the edge of oblivion. She was silent as she looked into the depths of the unknown, dipping her toes into the lake of thick, black, regret, allowing herself to be swallowed by the waters of despair. A calm nothingness was her reward for the calamity her foolish actions had caused, although it was more like a punishment to her. Scilence allowed time to think, and her thoughts are what scared her most. Her thoughts are a slit tongue reptile, which slinks its way from her brain to her throat, clawing its way up her trachea until it makes it far enough to choke her. She gasps for air, but no sympathy is shown from her invisible savior, although she yells, no words form. She is on her knees, but nobody is listening to her pleas. She will fade like a puddle on hot concrete, evaporating into the clouds until the memory of her body is lost. "A cliche" she said. "Is nothing but a perfectly crafted half-lie." Earning another roll of her faux friends eyes.
YOU ARE READING
A collction of metaphorical stories
Historia CortaA small collection of short storys I have written to help me cope with daily troubles, perhaps it will help you too. Stay strong, you're worth it ♡
