Chasing Sillhouettes

Chapter 1 - Engulf me.

Chapter 1-ENGULF ME

The human brain is an amazing piece of work. With over a billion neurons and brain cells, it is able to capture and store even the most mundane moments of our life. So, it is unquestionably expected that you remember what you had for breakfast that morning, or something extremely basic, such as your name.

Now picture this. You wake up one morning, stretching in bed like a cat having muscle spasms. You yawn a couple times, trying to get the oxygen to your brain. You feel like you do every day, rainbows and sunshine actually .Then suddenly, everything comes to a screeching halt. Your eyes open up to the size of saucers and the painful realization that something's amiss comes crashing down on you like a tidal wave. And better yet, what if that realization is the fact that you remember absolutely nothing?

That's how today morning plays out for me. Well, not exactly morning- there's no keeping track of time when you've been cast into a pit of blackness but you get my drift. Now the normal, average person, much like yourself, would have gone completely berserk. You would have been off your rocker and completely frantic. However, I do none of the above.The fact that I haven't completely lost it is mostly dependent on the realization that my entire body is numb. I can't move at all, let alone make any sounds to draw attention. Not like there could be anyone in this hell hole to hear me anyway.

After getting over the initial shock and bewilderment of not being able to remember even a single thing, I stop thinking and start looking around. When I start taking in my surroundings, I see things. Not just see them but actually notice them. First off, it wasn't a pit of blackness as I'd first thought. Miniscule specks of silver skirt the atmosphere, gracefully dancing and disappearing into the dark abyss below. I also realise, that I can't see my body but I can feel it. It was like I having my eyes forced shut. The last thing I notice, and probably the most important, was a screen. From where I was, the screen was so minute, I would have probably missed it if I hadn't been paying such close attention. It takes me a few more seconds for me to comprehend that there are pictures being played on the screen. I watch, squinting to get a clearer picture, completely transfixed by the fleeting images on the screen. Suddenly, I feel myself being jerked forward, the air being knocked out of my lungs and for one long moment, I can't breathe. Then as suddenly as it started, it's over.

And for the third time since I'd woken up in that black vastness, a revelation hits me hard.

I'm standing in the room of a young girl, her lustrous ruby red hair in a messy bun atop her head, her lipstick smeared across her porcelain skin, her beautiful broken aquamarine eyes staring into space, her cheeks stained with tears.

In her hand is a pen knife, the light glinting off its blade, perfectly poised over her wrist, hungry for the warm thick blood flowing through the pulsating vein there.

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part 2

Pain is a beautiful thing. It can make you forget what you wish to never remember. Its icy tendrils of pleasure can captivate you, leaving you yearning for more and more. The adrenaline rush is addicting, like a slow working drug.

But slowly, day by day, it starts to drag you down. The fainting spells, due to blood loss, take you captive and imprison you for longer periods of time. Your physical state deteriorates and you still don't acknowledge what you're doing to yourself. Then one night, you realise that your over exerting yourself by keeping your eyes open. So they slowly flutter closed. "just for a few moments", you tell yourself. You fail to hear your mother's quiet sobs in the background; the hysteric voice pleading with you to hold on, that the paramedics would be here in a minute. But in this commotion, one of the things that you do notice, is the hushed musical voice of an angel, urging you to let go; telling you your time here is over. You notice the smooth hand slipped into your own, white, frail ones, tugging you towards the bright light. Only then do you realise what you have done to yourself-the cutting, the drugs, the smoke.

15 August 2013

Rosalinda Tanya Hawthorn sits mesmerised by the crimson river flowing out of her wrist, blissfully unaware of the above revelation. A single swish is all it took. The red colour of the thick liquid pouring out of her wrist is the only colour in her otherwise bleak, grey life.

Outside, the rain falls in sheets. It hammers onto the window like the relentless drumming of nails and crashes deafeningly on the corrugated metal roof. In the past few minutes, a sudden chill has enveloped the room, almost like it was trapping and locking away the horrors and secrets of the young girl's actions.

A contended smile slips onto Rosa's face as she surveys the damage she has done.

Drip, drip, drip.

The blood flows from the slit on her wrist, onto the white tiled floor below. Her mind wanders to that night a few years ago, when her sixteen year old self had promised never to cut again between sobs. An animalistic snarl tears through her body when she remembers how vulnerable and weak she had been then.

"Pathetic!" she thinks, scolding herself for showing so much of emotion. Nevermind, she is strong now; invincible even. She has taught herself to bury the memories of the smile, the hair, the face. She doesn't know how long it will take, but she promises herself that she will forget.